Vault
by Pollux Unbound
Summary: The streets of Kanagawa are ruled by a gang of boys, Vault. With Mitsui being the core that binds it intact and Kogure, its brain, the members define brotherhood, sow violence and earn a page in history. AU. DISCONTINUED.
1. The King of Men

**Title:** Vault

**Summary**: The streets of Kanagawa are ruled by a gang of boys, Vault. With Mitsui being the core that binds it intact, and Kogure, its brain, the members define brotherhood, sow violence and earn a page in history. AU. On-going.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Slam Dunk and its characters; genius Takehiko Inoue does. The plot is _tightly_ based on Joyce Carol Oates's novel, Foxfire.

**Note**: I suppose Yaoi is inappropriate for this kind of story so pairings are a far cry from here. This is unedited, feel free to point out mistakes for future editions. Maybe I'll edit it later, maybe not.

**Full summary**: This is a story of young boys who, in their struggles to make something more of their dull lives, opt for a turn that will test the tenacity of their grip on their bonds. In the height of designing their grand aspirations they find a tense friction against another group of boys, a rather elite fraternity. The leader, Mitsui, then devices a plan that bodes mortal danger, requires great courage, spells evil, and ironically, aims for a glory only they can understand. But above all, this is a story about Hisashi Mitsui, Vault's burning core, the prime mover of this brotherhood that ignites it to function. **Kogure's**** POV.** This is multi-chaptered and I'm a procrastinator so _if_ ever I get the mood to finish this, it would perhaps be a thousand years from now.

--

Chapter 1: The King of Men

Whoever said that narrating a story should commence from where it sprang? What exactly is the significance or purpose of chronology? There's order, of course, and also, there's the credibility of accounts, but what the hell. Here goes how it ended, how _we_ ended, how all things we held sacred met that dreadful inevitability that normal people like to call _the end_.

_He never once forfeited his singleness. Not once did he subordinate himself under common ideas __or__ practices and in our last minute within each other's presence he cleaved to his own person only, without aid from higher__ forces and__ never surrendering to the inhospitable nature of that final moment. _

_"__You coming__ with me?" He asked and the inviolabl__e calmness he had always exercis__ed under cri__tical situations remained invincible__, indelible, __undiminished within him, __as always. _

_Fear undermined me. He was there but right the__n__ all el__se dissolved__ and __was__ stripped down to be reduced to that one bare truth: he had to leave, that much I knew, and forever it was for. My lips parted asunder and reunited in a __repetition of __diminishing motio__n__ until all the__se__ irregular __and weak __movements amounted to total immobility. _

_"I'm __gonna__ take ten steps backward, okay? And if by then__ you still have yet to stir a muscle,__ I'll be scramming." He said. It was too final, too irrevocably fixed that__ I dared not to speak. He took his__ pace and with every clatter__ the soles of his shoes produced__ my fist would tighten with the weight of an anvil. He performed the final step and searched me with only his eyes. I didn't move a blink. _

_"Well?"_

_"I—I won't forget you, __Hisa__s__hi__."_

_He cast me a look which had in it a restrained, contemptuous ridicule__. It was disappointment, no more, no less__. I felt like I was the one who was doing the necessary abandon__ing.__ When there was nothing more to say, or perhaps there was too much to say that words and all the varieties of body language were not enough, he gave me a salute, pointed his index finger at me, balled his fist and pounded it against his chest three times and __slowly, like a mechanical figurine atop a music box, __turned around__. Or perhaps time, for once, drew forth its reserved generosity so that it'd fare along slower for me to witness his departure in its most picturesque __fashion. __The last I saw of this person was his back. Like a flame, he flickered up for the last time and went out, went out forever. That marked the end of Vault, a death from which I needed—no—__**need **__to recover._

_--_

_The Beginning of All Things Great_

And now I shall tell you about the birth of Vault.

There's something remarkably predatory about his stature, perhaps it's the lack of civility in his movements and the unity of the fine, lean and sharp features of his face which renders him fearsomely handsome. This boy is toughness incarnate, a burning, walking concoction of shrewdness and passion, full of force and imbued with untrammeled principles. He is righteous in his respects and being a boy of the same age and standing as his, I simply can't help musing over him in bridled awe. Hisashi Mitsui is eighteen years of age, is worth as many praises as that of the ancient civilizations, and is deserving of countless notabilities both in physical and mental aspects. It is close to insanely bizarre that we get along pretty well. With the attention he gathers, as though they're part of his belongings, I'm infinitely much inclined to sink in the background whenever we walk side by side. I'm next to nothing in comparison; me, whose whole merit consisted in the fact that I'm mediocre shit and that I look decent. And Hisashi is the best friend I ever had and ever will have.

--

Here we are now, confined with some other twenty-five or so living souls, trying to absorb what convolution of nonsense this professor up front is thrusting forth in our heads. My brain will soon send in its resignation and I guess I'm not the only one for here is Mitsui, scribbling some sort of a note, probably just a random stuff, on a scrap of paper. He crumples it and hurls it past three seats; right up at me.

'rooftop, now' it reads. There's no hint of urgency in it; just plain boredom. Without waiting for my consent or reaction he stands up, stuffs his fists in his pockets and darts to the door. There's no suggestion of haste or stealth in his movements, there's only that patient impulse. This is how he shows reverence to whatever principles classroom ethics is enshrined in. I eagerly abandon myself to whatever pleasure his fashionable disregard to authority may offer; I follow suit.

"Just where do you two think you're going?" the professor asks.

"Washroom." Mitsui answers.

"Together?"

"Not necessarily. There are two hall passes available and I don't smell any rule-breaking element in relieving our bladders, do you, Kiminobu?"

"I—I don't think I do." I say. Mitsui nods and whisks past the door. I shoot an apologetic glance at the indignant educator before ridding the class of my awkward presence.

In the hallway,

"That was too easy, Hisashi." I told him as I try (and fail) to muffle my dorky excitement and transparent admiration of his godlessness.

"What is?" He asks. You never can accuse him of fishing for compliments; they come to him as though gravity pulls them towards him, to be collected, and then ignored.

"Just now. You really wouldn't give a damn if they kicked you out, would you?"

"Should I?"

"No."

We sat ourselves flat somewhere on the vast concrete landscape of the rooftop as I still try to keep abreast with his calm immobility which is further highlighted in contrast with my idiotic impulse to look at him every so fucking often. I'm quite sure he's been noticing it but it's not like it doesn't happen every day that one isn't inclined to be the victim of his unimpeachably bizarre air, which is as inviting as it is forbidding.

"Hey Kiminobu, don't you feel harrowed by this sphere we move into? This narrow morality on which people cling to, this deceptive veil they label as truths? This pretense, this…world?"

It sure sounds a damn lot like a suicidal contemplation. The way his mind functions and the things he attaches significance to are always hardly within the vicinity of my full comprehension and today is no different from this general standard. I ask,

"What are you saying?"

"I'd like to be with people who are willing to walk in the same circle, I'm thinking…"

"What?"

"Let's form a group."

When he speaks there's always this dim, almost imperceptible spark of underlying intent, so deliberate and immense despite its un-straightforwardness.

I look at him, not really trying to pierce through that thick sheet of subtlety, but only waiting for his remark to be expounded.

"Want to build something with me?" He pursues.

"Like a what, exactly?"

"Something."

"Like some gang?"

"Something like that."

"Permit me to inquire, what for?"

"I don't know. I just feel like doing it."

Silence ensues for a good deal of time.

Of course he knows. He just doesn't feel like explaining. There are millions of things slithering their way into the fathomless intricacy that is his mind and articulating them requires buckets of spit, which I'm quite sure he doesn't have in possession.

"And what can we gain from it?" I ask.

He keeps his temper in due proportion. I don't sound as though I'm all brimming with the enthusiasm he would have expected. He speaks, in a manner that may have contained a thousand meanings or a hollow implication only; I can't really tell.

"Things. Good things. All things great."

I can't distinguish which part of his answer sent me this shivery sort of excitement which now makes me realize how childish I am. Perhaps it's my strict belief in the things he's capable of that's giving me this feeling of a hopeful kind and yeah, that's most likely it. Impossible is nothing, for Hisashi Mitsui, that is.

It's settled. We're forming a group, a gang, a band of brothers, whatever it may be, he's gonna make it happen. For now, Mitsui has his eyes set on a 'very interesting' person, a weighty compliment, if you ask me; it does not at all accord with his habitual propensity of sizing things up in the critical point of view. In any case, I do remember the kid's name, a sophomore, Ryota Miyagi.

TBC

A/N: I'm open for plot suggestions….Strider, ivybluesummers, whoever you may be, if you guys are reading this, send in your comments hahaha


	2. Ryota

Chapter II: Ryota

Mitsui really is capable of far greater oddities than I initially thought. Of course I know Ryota Miyagi. If I remember correctly, that punk beat the crap out of him some nine or ten months ago and I'm quite sure neither of them has forgotten. Mitsui has always been dreadfully argumentative and impressionable and that Miyagi is no less, as his reputation suggests. And you know what happens when force meets force. Both had never known challenge until opposition touched them first-hand and opposition came in the form of each other, to be subjected to a sharp confrontation. I can barely recall how they originally came about into such a degree of mutual animosity but I do think it had to do with that incident in the cafeteria, a most ordinary day with all its usual compositions with Miyagi, being the ace of the football team, surrounded by a pack of friends; it looked as though they were doing him homage. And here was Mitsui, walking tall without intentions of haughtiness, with his hands confined inside his side pockets. He pushed through the crowd without showing displeasure, if he was indeed displeased by the obstructed passage which upon normal occasions, was often left clear for him. At some point, someone managed to pluck up the audacity, a regrettably stupid one at that too, to do something which hadn't been done before, or at least it wasn't anywhere in recorded history.

"If it isn't the deserter." A voice said.

All eyes turned on Mitsui. But he didn't seem to have heard the derogatory comment hurled at him or perhaps he did but it wasn't strong enough to distract his leisure of exuding proud indifference.

"Your ears have gone bad, huh? Good riddance then." The insulter pursued.

Mitsui slowed to a halt and turned his head slightly to the voice's origin but didn't face him squarely; of course the other was undeserving of the trouble of having Mitsui's head turned to a full 90-degree angle. Silence swarmed with the viciousness of something unlooked for and uncalculated. Miyagi could be glimpsed raising his hand to silence his cocky friend.

"Were you talking about me?" Mitsui asked with raised eyebrows to feign innocence, so deliberate was his attempt to appear surprised that he looked rather mocking from all directions.

The insult was directed at him, naturally. Everyone from the same batch knows that he was once a valuable part of the football team. Hisashi Mitsui was a prodigy, a star in the making, and like all stars bright and dim and anywhere in between he was doomed to fade someday, somehow. But before he slid down that pit through a natural slope, he fell off, voluntarily so, without valid reasons or even ridiculous ones. He just resigned and didn't tell why.

"I don't see any deserter besides you in here."

"Is that so? What, may I ask, was there to desert? I'm sorry but my definition of a 'team' does not at all accord with anything about your lot, group, whatever you call it nowadays." He answered in such an evenly leveled pitch you'd think he had it all mastered in a manner of hours when it actually was borne out of a passing impulse to retaliate injuriously but coolly.

Miyagi clearly had to have a say to this. He spoke,

"Mitsui-san, I apologize on behalf of my teammate for speaking too loosely about your past or verbally assaulting you. I hope you forgive him." He drew nearer to the other who didn't feel the slightest threat or show any form of humility. It was as though the floor was there solely to serve them.

Mitsui inclined his head to his side and furnished this nod of derisive acceptance with a scarcely discernible smirk. Before he could make his exit, Miyagi's fist came swooning against his cheek in a brute force. He staggered backward, completely losing balance. The sophomore spoke again,

"I, on the other hand, don't give a fuck if you condone or condemn me forever for hitting you. Never insult my team. If you're thinking your absence has reduced the club to mediocrity or to anything less, you are gravely mistaken, deluded, more like."

Miyagi was looking quite jaundiced that he had to muster quite a few deep sighs to master his breathing. Mitsui was nursing his reddened face. Any normal person with a normal bearing would have retaliated as violently as he was trespassed but knowing him, anything could have followed through. Anything. All the while, he was listening to the sophomore's speech in a courteous sympathy which just further implied that he was doing all the compromising and restraining.

"Gravely mistaken, perhaps. Though I don't know what exactly your team captain was doing at my doorstep two nights ago. He mentioned something about the club being short of a particular someone, an exceptional quarterback. I'm quite sure he wasn't talking about you, Miyagi, because for one thing, the club isn't deprived of you and for another, 'exceptional' is too strong a word to be in tandem with such a name, a name which doesn't deserve it, Ryota Miyagi, for instance. I was under the impression that he was referring to someone who resigned from the post some sixteen months ago. I don't know." He finished. Frankly, he would've inflicted more damage had he instead beaten the lights out of Miyagi and had him injured, physically. Mishima, the team captain roused from aghast, finally.

"It doesn't have to come to this. I don't deny having begged you, Mitsui-san, but you didn't have to put us through this humiliation."

"And you suppose I'm the one who stepped out of the line here, _Captain_ Mishima? Honestly, I don't see anything wrong with the team captain trying to pick up the pieces of a broken team and there's also nothing wrong with people knowing about it. Isn't that a natural part of a captain's duties?" Mitsui said and I knew he spoke what was really on his mind, that he never desired to put the captain to shame, that he wasn't driven to such a harsh measure by Miyagi and his cheeky friend, nor was he trying to elevate himself to earn a prima donna reputation. He was just being the incorruptibly frank person that he really is.

All went down from here. The last thing both Miyagi and Mitsui knew before they got sent to the hospital on separate stretchers was that they hated each other with all the strength of their souls.

--

He's not telling why he so intends to have more to do with that Miyagi kid and I don't reckon he's planning to have a good restart with him too, not that the sophomore is likely to play along though.

And now we're waiting outside Miyagi's classroom, not exactly looking like a pair of vultures observing our prey but more like two betters awaiting the lottery results which we are sure to win. Mitsui has his back against the wall and there's this dangerous thoroughness of a destructive intent about him which is amplified with every minute that passes in our prolonged inactivity.

The bell rings. The students sweep past us. Miyagi pulls to a stop as he closes in up to a relatively safe distance from my companion.

"Hangin' around for a rematch?"

"One time's enough."

"Well then, if you'll excuse your royal highness…"

Mitsui flits across his path and there dissipates from him something that's more than just a mere force of personality, a conscious defiance that's also very near cruelty. Miyagi is just as resistant to claimed authority as the other is, he speaks,

"What do you want, _sempai_?"

Mitsui grins at this unfamiliar mode of address; 'punk' would have been more up to mark.

"Come with us, that's all."

Miyagi's entourage of people makes a motion to protest against the obvious nature of the offer but he silences it with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Where to?"

"Just outside, not far from here."

"I'll come along then."

Miyagi and I follow Mitsui outside the building and on to a shaded area beside the baseball field bleachers.

"What do you want, Mitsui?"

Here, in this very enclosure of their presence, is an involuntary sense of tension so provoking that I'm starting to feel like I'm a part of this audience that watches them from afar through a telescope or from another place and time; it was only him and him on this.

"Lots of things."

"And one of these things is to pull me out of my lot to waste my time, I'm guessing."

"This won't take long."

"Start talking."

"Come with us, after your football practice. That'll be around 8pm, am I correct?"

"You still know the drill, don't you? Come back to the team." It sure isn't a request, he sounds as though he's making a claim of something that's rightfully his.

"The team is hardly a fraction of my concern now—"

"Why do you still hang around us, far from our notice but near enough for your observation? You'd like to come back and play again."

"That may be so but you're _mistaken_ anyway. Listen, meet us here at 8pm, ok? I'm not well-equipped enough anymore to wrap you up again in bandages on a direct path to the hospital."

"What's this all about?"

Mitsui heaves a sigh. "It's about time I _know_ what you're made of. There's this accounting office somewhere along the dark alleys of Allison district which a man, Mr. Tanaka, visits every Tuesday, that is to say today, to make certain transactions on some illegal occupation of an infamous description. I don't care who receives these Benjamins but I'd like to take this man down."

"And what has my presence here got to do with all of it?"

"Tag along. _We're_ taking him down. You game? Or are you _not_?"

Miyagi stiffens up, looking utterly scandalized.

"Y-you want to involve me in the execution of your crimes?"

"I wouldn't call it that, you know."

"W-what—what are you, some sort of a vigilante who tries to correct wrong with wrong?"

"Wrong again. I would rather have established a correctional facility if that's my goal and my mode of operation isn't that uncreative, mind you."

"I'm sorry but you're crazy."

"Well then, it's been nice _knowing_ the Ryota Miyagi." Mitsui says and wheels around to leave. Miyagi doesn't seem to know what to make of his proposal and the idea of its being acted upon. And as it is as natural as the dawning of noon and as regular as the circling of day and night, Miyagi takes a shot to redeem his position in Mitsui's eyes,

"Sempai, be reasonable, he may be having six bodyguards—"

"He won't be having any; that would have blown his cover and invited suspicions. I _know_ it all."

Then there's this silence that's indicative of a deep unarticulated connection between us three, saying that an agreement has been met.

And Ryota Miyagi is ours.

TBC.


	3. Vault

Chapter 3: Vault

It's never anyone's duty to heal the world. That's just the sort of thing incurable hypocrites try to do when they perfectly know that no amount of caring, alms-giving and speeches can impeach what the fuck is wrong in this world they live in. And no matter how great an aim it is it will just remain as it is; just a set goal dangling inches or maybe light years away from actualization and never will have a result. That's what Mitsui always tells me. So now, as the three of us reduce Mr. Tanaka and his companion to a bloody pulp something takes up a definite shape; yeah, we can't help the world and cure it of its injuries and we're _not_ even trying, I mean, what the hell for anyway? We're just doing what can be done and leaving what can't be undone. What can be broken is most probably already broken. Those who can be abused probably allow it in the first place.

After this, this rat isn't gonna stop spreading its stains by the black market but it sure feels damn good taking snatches of his unrecognizably bruised face in-between bouts of hits. The streets remain silent though it seems to us that the exterior walls have human breaths but they're never gonna talk anyway. We are just a group of impertinent nobodies doing what we think is worth doing. No witnesses, no names, no faces.

"That should do it." I say. And some prominent satisfaction surges up my chest as I kick Mr. Tanaka's boy over to make sure he's still breathing. He's very much alive and in no danger of death. Somehow, I'm slightly disappointed.

"I guess so. Shall we proceed to my place? Someone's gonna turn up soon." Mitsui says as he rubs his bloody knuckles.

Miyagi is panting heavily. He is currently detained in a prolonged period of shock. I don't think he's even hearing us talk.

"Those are some smooth moves you got there. I'm pretty good but I'm not _that_ good." Mitsui tells him.

Miyagi looks up at him and he looks as though he was seeing something alarming. He turns his eyes over his hands and stares at them for the longest time. "What the fuck have I done?"

"Nothing to be remorseful about; you just about cut half the life out of a 45-year old pervert." I assure him.

"Come off it. Let's go, you two."

We clear out the place and leave the two for stray cats to find.

Mitsui's place is empty. He guides the sophomore to a seat before heading to the refrigerator.

"You look funny." He tells Miyagi as he hands him a can of Coke.

The sophomore takes a sip. He rests his back against the backrest, looking as though he has never known the relief of sitting down and taking a drink after a grueling activity until now. Finally, he manages to collect his voice to speak,

"Don't ever ask me to do something like that again." He warns through tight, shaky lips.

Mitsui and I exchange fascinated glances.

"Not used to the harsh life, I suppose." I observe

"What you do is not merely harassment, you harm wrong-doers _not_ to teach them a lesson but for the hell of it and you think it's fun—"

"—well, it kinda is—"

"—do you realize what can happen to _you_ once you get unmasked? In the name of which you wage war on, aren't you scared? Do you even care at all? Do you—"

"—correction please: to _us_."

Miyagi's head sinks despondently. He knows he wasn't forced to this but he's in it nonetheless, and it can't be undone. But above all, the last thing he would want to be labeled as is 'coward'. He sure is in a very tricky position to balance.

"I-I—just thought we should be a little careful….next time."

Truly, the extents pubescent boys would go through to prove they're no sissies can cover the whole lengths of heaven and hell, if such is indeed measurable…if such places there may be. There evidently is a split between what he feels and what he has just said. And then, looking as though he so grudges yielding ground, he smiles and gives himself away. And so does Mitsui.

"That sure felt good, beating a devil up." Miyagi admits.

--

In these next few days, if you were a witness to what manner of strangeness their relationship has plunged into you can easily give meaning to the glances the two are exchanging down the school corridors; they're expressive of confidential intimacy, maybe something else too. It's as if some form of hostile mutuality has united them in a sudden bond of closeness. It is a wonder how such a connection could be forged from something that's initially only of an impersonal depth. You might say that what we now hold is too superficial, too officially established rather than gradually developed or unconsciously wrought to be the forerunner of some deep bond but as you know, young hearts are always recklessly passionate. Would it matter later how we started? What can spring from them, only hell can tell.

We now confine ourselves in a sphere beyond the world's judgment, and in it we trim down the world's excesses and refill its deficiencies to suit our preferences. It is now that we name this very vessel which holds us together. We're standing in a circle and are facing each other as if from the different ends of one plane, as if now is the time for which our bodies and souls have been tediously prepared. 'Vault', is the name we have agreed upon, nothing as fancy as them big-shots, just easy to pronounce and remember. And they will remember us well, mark my words.

--

Mitsui produces a size one combat knife from his pocket and fiddles it in his fingers.

"I'll have to make sure neither of you shall forget this night." He paces up and down his room as I browse through his bookshelf. Miyagi is currently too absorbed by the contents of Mitsui's desktop to lend him an ear.

"How?" I ask.

He does not answer. He grabs the hilt of his knife and buries its tip in his palm. Droplets of blood start to gush through the slit but he immediately subdues the weak flow by balling his fist. His footsteps die away and do not recommence until he makes for the bed and sits beside me.

"Take your shirt off." He says as I gaze impassively at him. I can't quite spell what purpose his request may serve, not yet.

Miyagi withdraws his face from the monitor and stares at us as though seeking assistance for some task he can't perform or asking if he has just missed anything super. I'm still staring calculatingly at Mitsui.

"This will sting a bit." He continues. The sight of his handsome knife dissuades any of my actions from issuing forth. I'm not scared of blood but this weapon of incision is too inviting a sight to be associated with something painful that I'm rather more inclined to express curiosity on what it can offer me.

I know what he has in mind. Even so, I'm no genius in initiation rites and this almost oppressive feeling of going up first into something partially unknown is sending nervous signals through every bit of me.

"What's going on?" Miyagi asks

"You watch."

I take my shirt off and as soon as it lands on the bed Mitsui cranes closer up at me, knife in hand. Dexterously, he applies the sharp edge on the skin of my chest, where my heart beats. A raw, pricking sensation courses its way from where the knife touches me and slowly, his hands begin working on carving the letter 'V' with the adeptness of those of a professional. It was fairly endurable, the cuts won't leave a serious scar but it will leave a scar, definitely, a mark which, I wish, will never fade.

"Cool." Miyagi says, "Do I get one too?"

"Would you like to?"

"O—of course."

Mitsui hands me the knife. "Do it on him. He'll do it on me."

This is how Vault comes to be. Its birth did not require blood spill or certain loyalty and dedication proclamations to award us membership, nor did it heap on us a number of responsibilities and restrictions to keep its name solid. Just like its leader, it keeps its demands and intricacies to a minimum. Mitsui never acts apart from his inherent beliefs unless there's a prime reason for the contrary.

New worlds break loose in us. These shaped scars that now bask in our chests are more than just a letter, more than a permanent tattoo. It's the reason for future sacrifices and is the recipient of all those we will be working painfully for. Vault is the name, remember it well.

TBC

**A/N**: This is just friggin' corny hahaha. Well, I can't exactly say Mitsui's a nihilist because he has these principles despite his severe cynicism hahaha. I decided I should go through the initiation first before the recruitment of other members. I'm still trying to decide who gets to be recruited next. And fuck, I'm running out of ideas hahaha.


	4. Kaede

Chapter 4: Kaede

Attention is one thing that naturally gravitates toward a person but its distribution is never well balanced enough to achieve that impartial standard, the ideal. Mitsui, for one, has had enough of it to last him a few lifetimes. Not that it needs mentioning. We have something going on; it's no news for us but on the outside society, it's purely unknown. That thing we did to Mr. Tanaka just simply passed on as a common street robbery which is a total lie. We didn't take a cent from him and as a fact, we even stuffed a few giveaways in his pockets; some pieces of paper with 'please die' printed on them. It's some smart move he did for not reporting the mysterious notes to the authority; that would just arouse suspicions. All the better for us because we can torture him with threats and he won't rat on about it to anyone.

Earlier this morning I had a talk with Miyagi. Being accustomed to stardom, he naturally wants others to know that he's more than just your typical sports jock; that he's made of something that penetrates through not just the high social realms of living but also that realm of too high an order to be defined. Brotherhood? Secret society? Freemasonry? I may be going too far. I don't even know what to call us. Sure he has involved himself into something new but that new thing is not righteous altogether. I'm not even sure if it's even something one should be proud of.

"Maybe we should leave a trademark every time we get something done like spray the letter 'V' with a graffiti or something."

It isn't altogether absurd. It's even interesting. Actually, it delivers this excitement, this feeling of being a part of something that's exclusive and mysterious and beyond the demands of mundane responsibilities. My mute agreement with his proposal is heightened by the thought of giving the world the recognition of this order that has grown out of the familiar worldly subjects. What if we write 'Vault' everywhere and make it the client of public walls?

But there's Mitsui. Unlike Miyagi, whose natural food is attention and who eats greedily, he is more adept in dodging it than harvesting it. He surely won't approve of the sophomore's idea. What is it to him anyway? He, who has never devoted the slightest care to people's opinion of him, his very reputation?

I managed to dispel Miyagi's unrelenting manner of proposing by suggesting that a three-man group would want to recruit more members first before striking higher notes and making a name for itself.

Recruitment. I wonder what Mitsui has in mind. The idea of the expansion of Vault is feverishly delightful. Certain thoughts start to parachute in my head, those things that only happen in the goddamn movies. We can really be something.

"You eyeing anyone lately?" I ask him.

"I figured I'd—we'd better let them come to us instead of scouting like some agency."

"Good point. However, only three people in the world know that there's such a group as Vault." I say, pondering how in hell our idea can be carried out to material fulfillment.

"Well then, he's gonna come to us, one way or another."

"Who's _he_?"

"You'll see."

In an instant, my doubts disperse, vanished at once.

--

Somehow, he still has things rolling in his favor without lifting a finger. Somehow they bend to his wishes as if submissively, inexplicably so.

--

It is normally at this time of the day that a boy named Shinichi Maki comes to feel the breeze that flits across downtown Kanagawa, where Shohoku is. Or so it seems. Everyone knows it's not the wind that brings him here; it's Kaede Rukawa. If the football club has Ryota Miyagi, the basketball club takes enormous pride on his counterpart. Rukawa. Maki, being the crowned MVP of the Inter High Basketball league naturally shows turbid interests in this Shohoku kid and he's not making any effort to make it less obvious. We all know what he goes here for. It's not just their common feat (basketball) that draws him near the kid but also the name he can build for his group, of which he is the head, once he gets Kaede to sail with him, with them. What's worth giving credit is the fact that Maki's group doesn't stoop low enough to be labeled as merely a gang. They've been around longer than we have and some say what they are is infinitely more than just your regular fraternity. It's something that takes more than money and intellect to officiate; you'd have to be born with that particular something to qualify as a potential member.

Charm. I can't exactly say Rukawa Kaede has it. It's not like I'm part of this crowd that ogles at the mere sight of him. In fact, the only reason I know him is because the entire campus knows him and since I go to this school it only follows that I have his name and face committed to my memory, if only temporarily. Or at least I know him as much as his amicability provides, if such is indeed present in him. What I have observed so far is that his sociability does not soar above imaginary; therefore, it is possible that we can never conceive him as anything more than what he projects. We may never know who the real Kaede Rukawa is. What in bloody hell. Anything more of an in-depth analysis of his personage I reserve for the others to venture on. Whatever the case is, it appears that Shinichi Maki will stop at nothing to make this boy his, this prodigy, whom Hisashi Mitsui would also like to make his own, dangerously so. As poor and uncertain as my assertion is, I'm quite convinced Hisashi seriously has it going for him. And like Maki, he will also stop at nothing to recruit him. Worlds do collide and the showdown now spins in the hastiest of movements. I wonder what Mitsui has under his sleeves…but then again, when has he ever lost to anything at any given time?

TBC


	5. Of Style and Hisashi

Chapter 5: Of Style

For the most part I do think this is getting rather absurd. Not that I'm averse to almost every kind of competition but I'm not gonna leave the fact that Mitsui had never paid Rukawa the slightest attention before he formed Vault alone. That is to say, he only wants the rookie to join us to piss the hell out of Maki. I sure do wish he wants a lot more than that. Is this just a game he feels like playing at the moment? Is this his ideal manner of playing along and setting up an even ground with others like us? Or is he just giving way so suddenly to a passing impulse?

His forcefulness doesn't stop here; it only continues to surge on without delay and unrealized by him. Here now develops the ripened grain of many dark intentions. Here now is the execution of too delicate a plan to be passed on as a possibility. For Kaede Rukawa is too thick a metal to bend

Maybe…not?

"It's Kaede, right?"

"Hn."

"I'm Mitsui Hisa—"

"—I know."

Mitsui shoots Miyagi a look demonstrative of one thing only; mocking secrecy. The latter seems to have understood it all the moment Rukawa's curtness hit them both.

An old style that never rusts. It's kinda lame if you ask me. I mean, come on, Hisashi, if Maki still hasn't gotten around to taking possession of this kid by now, he's most likely gonna get around to doing it by tomorrow or the day after that.

"Good. Now if you'd be kind enough to pass a message to Maki from me—"

Rukawa turns to leave.

"Okay, Rukawa, let's get this straight." Mitsui pursues, "Your leader, Maki, that is, —"

Rukawa slows to a halt.

"Leader?"

"Yes, Maki Shinichi, the head of your lot." Mitsui confirms what he knows as false.

The freshman tries to look cool but only succeeds to be composed yet insulted.

"And what makes you think I'm a member of his gang?"

"Let's see…you meet with him every day, he even drives you around on his Mustang and what else? But whatever the case is, I'd like you to tell him—"

"That's a presumption at most, not a proof."

This is where the hard part starts. Who can tell if Rukawa is indeed finding Maki's unknown proposals unattractive? But then again, where is the proof to the contrary? Though for all we know, there's only a matter of minutes left before he enters into a world full of grandeur and glamour; we don't call them elite for nothing.

How can it be asked without indiscretion?

"Perhaps I'm mistaken then?"

"Yes. Perhaps you are."Rukawa ascertains.

This is fishing at its grandest. Even so, Mitsui has managed to transform that one last vanishing hope into a probability, and with style at that too. Rukawa Kaede, as of this moment, belongs to no one.

Miyagi, whose reaction is always inclined to exaggeration, gives Mitsui another look as if possessed by some dark fascination.

"Very well, Kaede," Mitsui starts with that unimpeachable regularity of calmness overshadowing the rest of whatever it is that should be in his voice, "I'll stop beating around the bush if you'll be patient enough to lend me an ear."

"You're all the same, Maki and his members. I'm not interested, sempai." Rukawa answers with such an air of firmness and resolution which is almost savage. This maybe is the end of this meeting.

Not for Hisashi Mitsui.

"Not interested in what? I believe I have yet to say anything that can even be associated with an offer of any form."

I don't know what's so fucking attracts Mitsui to detours and long cuts; we came here to achieve one goal only and that is to lure this basketball superstar into the pit of our design and master him, own him. Now all the promises of recruitment are degenerating into utter obscurity because of this one haughty sentence uttered by our head. This looks like an ambition shut in by high walls. Or will his style, stake the whole of your reserves on one card, work?

"So long." Rukawa takes another shot at scramming.

"I've virtually nothing to offer you, as you can see, but Kaede Rukawa, what you see now is real; Hisashi Mitsui is forsaking all the rules that dignity dictates for you to be his. He asks of you one great thing and that is to be a part of his lot. I know not what Maki has in reserve for you and I've no plans of paralleling them with mine because as you can plainly say, I'm just your regular teen who has nothing better to do 

than try to defeat boredom. And in my—our—case, Shinichi Maki and his pack of wolves are boredom incarnate. There you have it, Kaede, I'm the conniving, thieving bastard under cover."

This invariably pulls Rukawa's retreat to a stop.

I've never once heard of Mitsui having begged for anything until now. Not only did it sound like a request which, in his case, comes in rather rarely and coming from him, it really is something, but also it sounded so much more like a plea than an offer, which is much more so peculiar. Miyagi's smirk, which has been lingering and standing out prominently on his face for quite a number of minutes now, is now starting to recede into blankness. Is this the Mitsui we've always known? No, because his cavernous person is never for anyone to explore as thoroughly as to size him up completely.

Rukawa is staring at him in mild amazement.

"You heard that right."Mitsui spells the contents of the freshman's thoughts.

"I don't care what importance my joining in on your lot has and I have no intentions of knowing."

"Doesn't everything begin with indifference?"

I wonder how Mitsui would go by without a goddamn mouth; he's so much made of talk.

"Maybe."

"To be honest with you, I don't think you'd have allowed me to consume 20 minutes of your time if you didn't find my approach inviting or stylish in the least."

"How straightforward and expectant, hopeful too."

"Yes indeed." Mitsui admits; a claim that's undignified in meaning but triumphant in tone.

"…"

"Since you seem to have nothing more to say, we will make our exit for now, Kaede. By the way, these are my brothers, Kiminobu Kogure and I suspect you already know who this football superstar is. I'll see ya around."

Mitsui wheels around, leaving me, Ryota and Rukawa wordlessly planted on our spots.

--

The next few days find their afternoons in a seriously distinct phase; Shinichi Maki has stopped feeling the breeze of downtown Kanagawa and no longer will Rukawa repeat his endless declination to him, for he is currently strolling the grounds with him who earns his prizes by chance and not by labor; Hisashi Mitsui. Along with these two strollers are me and Ryota Miyagi.

TBC


	6. Gungrave

**A/N**: This chapter is narrated in a **third person point** **of view** because predictably enough, I am now introducing the other gang, Maki's. The name of this gang is not my own; it's the title of a fairly decent anime, Gungrave, which is also about a gang of boys. I'm so unoriginal you can shoot me bloody right now. In any case, here, the contrast between Vault and Gungrave is highlighted. This is unedited so mistakes may be all over the place.

Chapter 6: Gungrave

In the case of the sailor it's called the tide, in the case of a sinner it is guilt and, in the case of a fighter, which is where he can be categorized into right now, it is plain defeat. Shinichi Maki is staring into some unknown attraction which, perhaps, is nothing more than the darkness of the night itself. The lines in his face are showing off more prominently than how they're previously remembered to appear; no doubt he is looking restless which is rather understandable on account of the late hour. But such disconcertion isn't merely caused by the span of time he has stayed awake on this day nor does it have anything to do with the physical activities he engaged into earlier. For as good as anyone can tell, this basketball superstar is far from behaving like one at this very moment.

"Should you really get it to you this much?" A boy of about 18 and of remarkable good looks has come to join him in his seclusion.

"Nah, I shouldn't think so." Shinichi Maki answers as though he's being pitched into a sudden passage from discouragement to comfort. What has disturbed him completely dissipated in an instant. This is just one of the peculiar and remarkable things Kenji Fujima is capable of.

Fujima gives a smile of cheery politeness and that just about shook the other's troubles down to their hinges. These two lads, who are the founder and the pillars of a group called Gungrave, are no less than your school jocks of the highest class, finest breeding and rarest intellect.

"Shall we go then?"

"Sure."

And they went, abandoning desolation and advancing to society, off to pay respects to one of their 'brothers' who at this moment is burning his fats off on a stage performance in a fully booked concert.

Soichiro Jin is perhaps the best acoustic guitarist of his age in the whole of Japan.

The pair pushes through the crowd and catches sight of their friends, their brothers, as how they refer to one another.

"Sempai, what took you? It's _his_ second piece for the night." There's something indifferently proud about this news despite its earnestly innocent delivery. For one thing, Jin Soichiro is never a one-man band, in fact he owes a lot to his band mates for elevating him into such a pedestal of fame. For another, the tune he's playing right now would sound too singular in the absence of a bassist, a drummer and 

superb vocals, as such has always been the case in the genre of music they're into. The rest of the band is playing too, in a word.

But what can one expect from a superstar of Sendoh Akira's caliber? These minute details, the presence of the other band members alongside his brother's for one, are more or less negligible for his observation to grace, much more for his precious attention. And that's considering the fact that he and his two other 'brothers' have been standing there, apparently watching, if not exactly listening to, the band play the most mainstream of titles, for approximately 30 minutes now. Or perhaps he hasn't been listening nor watching all along. Maybe his mind is right all over the place, combing the entire vicinity for a goddamn basketball court in the hope of spotting one and transporting his mortal body to it by whatever means. It is the 4th song the band has played after all.

"Fourth, in fact." The boy beside him corrects him.

"Oh. Sorry."

"There's been a minor letdown. But nothing big, I assure you." Maki informs the three, his gaze locked on their brother's performance, feigning what must have been interest.

"Does that mean my supposed predecessor is more elusive than what we previously assumed?" Sendoh asks. The comment is not intended to blow any cover of any sort but it does blow Maki's nonetheless. This is the first injury his failure to recruit Kaede Rukawa serves.

"Let's not make a big deal of it, you guys. For now, let me remind you that Jin is shedding more than just his sweat to impress the whole lot of us. If it's not too much to ask for your enthusiasm, your appreciation would suffice. If you still can't give him that, at least lend him your attention." Fujima says.

That sends the two basketball players, Maki and Sendoh, orienting their faces where they should; to the stage.

"Very well."

Fujima flashes a smile to the other two, whose names are Hiroaki Koshino and Toru Hanagata by the way.

It must be noted here that while these other two Gungrave members are not much up to vying against the stardom of the other four, which is epic to start with, it cannot exactly be conveyed that they're nothing special.

Here it is revealed that Gungrave lands well above outstanding, astounding, some even say.

It is widely known, for words of such contents (of personal backgrounds specifically) have always been scattered abroad, what level of wonders the boys of Gungrave are made of.

We will start with Shinichi Maki for he is the leader of his pack, the fuel that sets their wheels in motion.

--

_Shinichi_

For formality's sake, it should be mentioned that he comes from a decent family of a decent background with decent collective income and decent looks and just about everything that is related to decency. As he is being provided with a decent education in Kainandai University, it only equates to him getting decent grades. But not everything about him is decent. It turns out he's not as predictable as what his introduction suggests. For Shinichi Maki's athletic capabilities defies common beliefs. As far as any of his coaches and trainers knows, never has so much talent been ingrained into a single person and of such a young age at that too. It is that easy to broadcast and to say. Anyone can go around, after seeing him play for the first or nth time, and say easily that this is prodigy in the most super degree, just as what usually happens to anyone after witnessing the most superb of game plays. But such observation is not subject to fading in memory if the object of such is this boy. Shinichi Maki is better than that. Better than decent. In fact he's better than all.

At some point in the 18 years of his existence, most likely within his rise to stardom, boredom managed to squeeze itself right where it shouldn't be at all places; Shinichi Maki's life. In between harvesting ridiculous amounts of praises and admiration and respect, it became repeatedly clear to him that he was living in a very dull age. Now it must mean that boredom is most powerfully pervasive or simply that Shinichi Maki is a goddamn diva who is so damn hard to please. Considering the reputations of the people he has chosen to be in his circle, it must be the latter. So it happened that he somehow found himself in the pretentious activity of hanging out on a bar one late night. He never drank though. He did try but for some reason never quite succeeded in pushing the alcoholic beverage down his throat. He would look around the room, survey the dance floor, smile at girls and try to look as though such environment was very much familiar to him. He just failed in doing so. Actually, he looked as though he was suffering from severe cramps for having to maintain a difficult position; standing on a spot where he didn't want to be. And this place, which was precisely where he didn't want to be, was the place where he met the most brilliant person he's ever known. Kenji Fujima. They hit it off straight away. The basketball varsity team captain has finally managed to conquer boredom.

--

_Kenji_

Kenji Fujima is made of all things desirable. According to wide results of surveys, if they were distributed and answered of course, the first thing you'll notice after having spoken to him for more than 3 minutes is that you're falling in love. Or at least that's applicable only among the female population which, by the way, constitutes ¾ of the population of Shoyo University. And that's conclusively what? approximately 1,300 high school girls in love with him. And that's excluding members of the faculty department and a fraction of the male population.

He's just your type of genius who can solve ten Integral Calculus problems in 45 minutes without omitting a single formula derivation in the process. Without mistakes of course. He's the type who only needs 20 minutes of thinking time to produce an impeccably delivered 800-word essay for his English Literature class. He's the type who always, always makes it to the podium during the awarding ceremonies in science fares. For these very reasons his parents adore him so with obsessive fondness that they invariably have forgotten the merits of their other son. What other choice can their attention and dedication have? Kenji, their eldest child is most courteous, kind, intelligent, talented and charming. 

To further escalate their enthusiasm for the brilliance that is their son, Kenji Fujima has been recently elected as the Shoyo high school department's students' council chief officer. For that they have to purchase him a new car because his old one is getting rusts in the bumper which would be very much unsightly beside their beautiful Kenji. It would've made the boy more comfortable if his folks would just stop reiterating to anyone within earshot the manner by which he won; victory by a landslide. But then again, what is this petty embarrassment in such a deluge of joy?

More than anything, Kenji Fujima regards himself as an artist. Though he exercises no particular devotion to religion of any sort, he attaches quite excessive respects to religious paintings especially that of Giotto whose mode of representation were so two dimensional that his surviving works are often the prey of critics. In defense, Kenji Fujima steadfastly insists the elegant primitiveness of the artworks is too deep and elusive for the common eye to understand. Well, no one understands him, really. Who cares about Giotto, Boticelli, Michelanglono and the rest of them dead icons anyway these days? Glory days are always temporary, if not momentary.

His love for the classics is not strictly confined within the bounds of visual arts. He is in fact multi-talented whose interests are candidly open for anything that can be associated with art. He started playing the piano when he was five and the violin and cello a few years afterwards. He has this sentimental passion for past eras that whenever he would start talking about the uprising of emotional freedom of music in the eighteenth century and about Schubert, Tchaikovsky and Liszt, Sendoh and the others would entreat him to speak in a language that's at least similar to Japanese, preferably not Martian language, they would joke.

So there is Kenji Fujima for you, a modern day Da Vinci who has the despair of painters and the charm of poets, a face of an angel and goodness of a saint. A walking perfection with limbs and all.

--

_Akira_

If you look closely enough, at least a hundred yards away from this person, if such distance can be considered as close, and I mean with your naked eye, you'll gather that Akira Sendoh is sending more signals than a Black Hawk Chopper on code red alert by simply walking across the school ground pavement on to the building without resorting to smiling or winking or to any expression indicative of something above apathy. That's perhaps a mild exaggeration but it's kinda near the sort of commotion he inspires from the girls. From a hundred yards away, mind you. But such is not always the happy case because Akira Sendoh loves to smile. A lot. So every morning on the unfortunate ground of the Ryonan High, people do not just gather that he is Mr. Attention Thief; they redundantly (for this happens almost every time he passes by a group of girls) learn that he is also Mr. I'll-smile-the-pants-out-of-you-right-here-right-now. Having the full knowledge that he is indeed more charming than Dionysus himself as it is most profusely implied, Sendoh, in the back of his head, contentedly thinks that the world revolves and rotates for his convenience, for his constant longing for the alternation of day and night to be precise. He thinks the world is that stupid. And you know what, he's kinda right. It's not just the girls that have ushered him into thinking so; there's his basketball coach, Mr. Taoka, there's his English teacher and the rest of the school faculty, his parents of course and perhaps the entire planet Earth. And praise might as well be invented by him. Over-rated might as well be his second name. Perhaps television is not the only place where good looks and tremendous charm can grant you access. It can grant access to good grades in the most harrowing of subjects, and above all, first class tickets underneath women's skirts. But Akira Sendoh persistently claims he is still a virgin. No one really knows for sure if he sleeps around but then, no one also knows for sure if he _doesn't_ sleep around. So in the light of this puzzle, it can be hypothesized that he is partly a mystery and not purely made of showcase, ostentatious material, or just about anything related to showing-off material. Or maybe so.

While it cannot be ascertained if he secretly and deliberately perpetrates his ceaseless ascend to popularity, he does pour in serious attention to his games. Being named as the succeeding captain of the Ryonan basketball team, at this still too early a stage to perform captain duties, he demonstrates what differences and similarities, and most of all advantages, he can conceivably offer his team. At this rate, he has already shown he is capable of bringing far greater glory on the table than what their current captain can hope to bring. Already, he is treading the broad path of progress that he himself wrought. Such is the genius of Akira Sendoh when it comes to this sport. And though he is liable to fool around and succumb to the invites of the erratic teenage behavior, he knows in himself that in the end, there is his indivisible passion for basketball, which he never will surrender for any amount of superstardom, not even for the entire world.

--

_Soichiro_

A dorky rockstar, that's what Soichiro Jin is. You know how the tedious cycle goes off; the lead guitarist is always hotter than the vocalist. Actual proofs of that are Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Guns n' Roses, Beatles, Audioslave, Phantom Planet, Arkarna and the list goes on and on. There's this enigma about lead guitarists that's so hard to define. Maybe it's their silence, their choice to be just a part of the background, their rare fabrication of publicity, their appearances as superb background vocalists, their potential to earn fame on their own, the lack of controversy in their reputation and many more. Well, Jin is that typical, that is, if you count Joe Perry, Ritchie Sambora and Tom Morello among the typical.

On top of all these, Soichiro Jin is in love with someone whose name is Gilbey. Rather with something called Gilbey, which happens to be his guitar named after Guns n' Roses's Gilbey Clark. Unlike all them fast-lane dwelling and glamorous life-living rockers, Jin doesn't let any form of excessive indulgence get the better of him. He is a normal school boy who has many friends outside the stage. Friends whose faces he knows; not like those that consist the crowds he has performed for which are as forgettable as a nothing-special new acquaintance.

There's something irresistible about him, girls say. His eyes for one are adorable, his skinny built is sexy, which his choice of wardrobe further amplifies, his voice is comparable to alternative rock typical, and oh, his hands are something your eyes shouldn't miss. He has long slender fingers that can stretch apart from one another by three frets. That's one major requirement of a good guitarist. And he can play, play any tune anyone asks of him like a god. He is this person whom you wouldn't look at thrice in an hour but if you ever get the chance to hear him play, try extricating your eyes from him every so often to define 'impossible... if you ever get to hear and watch him play, guitar in arms and all.

--

_Hiroaki_

There's always this inexorable thing about school jocks. It's a sidekick. Akira Sendoh is one heck of a jock but in an absence of a vast range of support group he wouldn't be more of one than what he is now. And he would be much, much less had he not a best friend. Hiroaki Koshino is not exactly proud of filling this subversive post but he hardly has a choice. He and Sendoh have known each other for quite a long time; since they were in preschool. For countless times, he has been the victim of his best friend's popularity, in other terms, the recipient of all inconveniences produced by the attention Sendoh's sterling charm acquires. Growing used to it is just sliding down the natural path. It's not like he has choice if he constantly becomes a motionless feature of the landscape whenever he walks side by side with his best pal. Not that it matters any more than it used to.

Basketball has been his first love though it doesn't love him back as much as it loves dear Akira back. As a loyal friend, he stepped down and gave away what he had so long sustained and restrained; insecurity. It was a painful submission, a final deliverance, a bitter surrender. To him, that's what it was like giving that one thing he loved dearly. Basketball.

In their second year in junior high, he informed Sendoh that he'd like to quit the team for he had found out that as long as he cleaved to the sport, all roads led to nowhere. It sounded more of an official, business-related announcement. There was something evidently detached in his manner of speaking and he couldn't look Sendoh in the eyes. He could see him but he wasn't looking at him. And the taller boy did not understand it. And he still doesn't even now and perhaps he never will.

Hiroaki Koshino, instead, joined the soccer team where, thankfully, much of his talent is put to use. No one can exactly tell if he has indeed found a new shelter with all the comfort of team unity and the absence of a bitter competition in this field. With Sendoh on a wholly different platform, Koshino, the lynx, shall no longer submit to the claws of a lion. Because after all, he is the reigning ace of the soccer club and the title 'captain' will be his own by next year.

--

_Toru_

Toru Hanagata knows that only one person in the world (besides himself) regards him as Kenji Fujima's equal. And that's Mr. Perfect himself. He never participates in international quiz bee competitions despite having received about one million invitations. He doesn't like responsibilities heaped on him so when he was summoned to the principal's office to be forcefully pushed to run as a candidate for the students' council president post, he flatly refused. What the hell are these morons thinking, he thought. Only Prince William would win a popularity vote against Kenji Fujima.

Once again, fate serves him the fortune his intellect deserves which, to him, is nothing but a misfortune he does not deserve. The school board called him to the office once again. This time, they were asking him to fill the debate club presidential post. The head teacher promptly explained that he would automatically be transferred to the office if he would consent; there's no competition this time, no votes, all he was being asked to do was to sit like a king and teach the members not to reason and debate like a bunch of morons. But Toru Hanagata hates responsibilities as much as he hates being asked to accept one. Again, he declined, because he was smart and he knew he was being thrust again into a position where he was to accommodate responsibilities Fujima's time could not afford. He saw himself for what these morons of a school board saw him; Kenji Fujima's less able version.

He is far from being that.

He doesn't have the capacity, or maybe just the will, to lead. That's simply because he doesn't think that correcting the wrong isn't a part of his duties. It's not a matter of maintaining the selfish principle of not wanting to impart his wisdom; it's just that if these students need a leader to guide them in every activity, it must mean that they are a bunch of incapacitated turds. And Toru Hanagata doesn't want to have anything to do with incapacitated turds, much less waste his time trying to correct their incorrigible ways.

Academically speaking, it is truly impossible to tell who reigns supreme between him and Fujima. The title valedictorian has been alternately given to the two of them for five years running now. Both have three titles in their armoires; there was a time when both were named valedictorian of the year. Kenji Fujima and Toru Hanagata have sworn that only one of them would be given the title in their final year which happens to be now.

Only Kenji Fujima has stepped inside the innermost threshold of Hanagata's being, only he managed to persuade him to accept the debate club president post beside the various generous offers of the school board, for he is the best friend Toru Hanagata has ever had.

**TBC**


	7. Football

Chapter 7: Football

"By any chance, sempai, are you coming back?" Miyagi asks.

"Huh?"

"Football."

Mitsui resumes his reading before answering with what I observe as phony indifference, the phoniest one I've seen in years, in fact.

"No chance."

"Why?"

"We've talked about this." He, again, succeeds in making the controversial sound so trivial, the creative genius that he is.

"Yeah and you've _never_ answered. Not once."

Mitsui closes the book he's reading before shifting his gaze to Ryota. The sophomore stares back at him, his eyes not retreating before the hinted annoyance that spells end of conversation. Mitsui must have forgotten that we kinda owe a little something from Ryota; something like his presence. Personally, I think he deserves more than this surly dismissal when he, in the first place, had earlier declined his football teammates' invitation to some local pub in celebration of 'something measly' he says. There may have not been a good reason to celebrate anything about the team but hey, football players are all about parties. And Ryota Miyagi has been notably cutting down on a helluva lot of partying in exchange for being holed up in a stupidly solemn place with his former mortal enemy whom, for some unknown reason, he so admires lately.

He should be given more credit than what he's currently getting, that's all I want to say here. I mean for him, it's as easy as saying 'I've got 22 burly teammates waiting for me outside so we can have the time of our lives but since I'm trying to impress Mitsui-sempai, I think I'll just... try to be boring for now.'

"What is it with my quitting that's not getting through your head?"

Uhm, let's see, how about everything? I'm itching to blurt out accidentally-on-purpose style. Maybe next time.

I suspect Mitsui would be reduced to a cacophony of pathetic and hesitant and incomprehensible string of attempted words if strategic digression and redirection were against the law. But on second thoughts, there would be no Hisashi Mitsui at all if beating around the goddamn bush wasn't invented.

"There's the lack of a valid reason, the abruptness of course, and the lack of valid reason. And did I mention the utter lack of a valid reason?"

Mitsui can't help but smile at this bold sarcasm, and so do I.

"Football's just not for me."

"Then that should mean it's not for _me_ either."

"I didn't say it like that."

"You just about implied." Ryota says. Sometimes you just have to marvel at him in exercising this kind of stubbornness. By this time, he should already know what magnitude of stubbornness Mitsui is also capable of and tearing through it by using the same thing is perhaps effective. I dunno, we'll see.

"How so, may I ask?"

And the conversation has now taken a turn that has little left to do with Ryota's original query and it doesn't seem like him noticing it is just around the corner.

I think I've held my silence longer than I ought to have. It's a good thing Kaede's currently in his basketball training sessions, otherwise there'd be two of us here now trying to endure Mitsui's long, meandering course that he so likes to call a good conversation which to any normal person, is no more than do-anything-to-avoid tactic.

"You know the answer to that, Hisashi. And so do we. Now we'd seriously like to know why you just left the team when all the heavens were blessing you like you were their long lost son or something." I hear myself say all of a sudden. Believe me, I was never fond of verbal intrusions; not my style. My mouth preceded me and perhaps I should've sent a warning first or maybe say sorry after blurting such shit out…but my goddamn mouth preceded me.

"Long lost son, huh? I like that one, Kiminobu. Does that make me a bastard then?" Mitsui asks through restrained fits of jolly laughter as though he has just heard the funniest joke I've cracked for the day.

"Yeah, more or less." I answer. He's still laughing, apparently at something which you can bet your entire house is nowhere near funny.

Ryota still has Mitsui under scrutiny. I'm quite sure he heard me speak seconds ago, only that what has been poking his curiosity has gone too over-ripe to pay me the slightest heed. So over-ripe in fact that he's more than willing to enter this labyrinth of word games with Mitsui even without the assurance of an exit.

"How, you ask, sempai? I think I can answer that." Ryota starts, completely ignoring my misplaced comment and Mitsui's reaction to it. The sophomore continues, "Allow me to tell you that sensitivity is something I honestly think I can't expect from you so when you say football is not for you, it must mean you're thinking paying the sport serious dedication won't fetch you anything. That's being insensitive to yourself… and to me and perhaps to a million more aspiring professionals out there. And you know why. Because you're a damn lot better than us. Damn lot."

That's what I call condescension.

Mitsui doesn't stir a muscle though he appears to have recovered from my allegedly brilliant joke. About him, I really can't be too sure of anything. Miyagi's remark may have fallen on him like a shower of ice sticks or the wind may have simply just blown; I'm quite sure it's somewhere in between.

The seconds are getting staler in this room with so complete an absence of disquiet. Has Mitsui's love for football died out entirely or has it just subsided down to a bed of embers, waiting to be rekindled? Now's the only time to answer that, if not, I guess we'll never know. It's now or never, this phrase never really rings truer than a comic book's contents but in the case we have now, it has to be true. It just has to.

Miyagi speaks again, pushing Mitsui's defenses to far ends "So, what was it, Mitsui-sempai?"

"Completely nothing." He answers finally. He's just this type of guy who hates, hates to go straight to the point or simply someone who likes to boggle the shit out of anyone who talks to him. What's even more unfair, or should I say annoying, is that he so much likes to demand elaborate explanations and precise definitions of _anything_ you say when, I don't know, I was under the information that though far from here and long ago, Voltaire and Aristotle had apparently died.

"And everything?" Ryota pursues.

This time there's no smile to rescue him, no group of words to deflect questions he doesn't want to answer; only the truth. "And everything, yes." Mitsui agrees in the most mechanical fashion. He faces the window and gradually surrenders to the absent-minded occupation of staring off to no one knows where. Perhaps I like this forced-to-silence Mitsui better mainly because he becomes vincible.

There is this silence again that guarantees no extenuation, only extension to infinity. And I begin to question if the two of us, Miyagi and I, this space, this time, the sky outside, are willing to hear what he has to say. It may be too personal for our appetite. Whether we are worthy or not of knowing such secret, which has so long been kept in the most untouchable confinement, is perhaps not important. Maybe what must be kept has reached a point of resolution, that all it needs is to be set loose. Only Mitsui can signal this resolution, if it indeed exists or even bound to.

"Sempai, I don't have a claim to the entitlement of your highest favors or the right to be your most trusted confidante and I'm not even trying to get a hand on either of those two. I'm not-gosh- you must think I'm only here to pry these secrets off you but I'm not after that. I only need to know because-because, I don't know, we're…" And he trails off while both Mitsui and I have guessed what should follow next.

"…yeah we don't call each other 'brother' for nothing. This is not a team where secrets can be kept without forging enmities and creating distances. I know. I understand. And I don't have to be reminded of that. I'm gonna tell you not soon enough but _now, _if you wish." Mitsui says.

Yeah we so damn wish, upon a star and the whole galaxy in fact.

Mitsui starts talking in a way I've never known him to be capable of; solemnly, bordering on sorrowfully too, or maybe my enthusiasm is distorting my better judgments.

"I figured it out long before I should have. That aspiration, that dream, whatever you call it, nothing awaited it but the coffin, maybe even less, the dirt even. It was like longing for a shore that's not even a mirage because you can't even see it in the first place. It was less than an illusion; it was a conscious deception of one's self, myself for instance. I had to wake up, right? I-you're right, Ryota, I'm better than half your team put together, or I used to be, once upon a happier time, but it doesn't matter now. It's not just a matter of sufficient skills, it's also a matter of conviction, support, inspiration but that's just four among one million other things you gotta have to be the real thing. I wasn't good; I was great, they used to tell me that. But I was just getting nowhere. In the long run there's only the dead end that will stare at you candidly and tell you you've wasted your time over something that couldn't deliver you to where you wanted to be. I wanted to be a pro more than anything, wanted to conquer not just Japan but the world, are you hearing this? But I'm just not made of international material and not even my god or yours or anyone's for that matter can deny that. If I pursue this, where will it get me after college? Local league? Come on. Don't give me that look, Ryota-I wanted to reach for the stars, they've given me the set of stairs but halfway through I learned firsthand I wouldn't be able to endure their heat. So there, my dearest quarterback and substitute running back, Mr. All-Around, did I just ruin your dream for you?" Mitsui finishes, evidently satisfied with his sentimentally pessimistic, bordering on nihilistic recitation. And boy I was so right in thinking it was gonna be a long personal speech. Even so, I'm glad to know...maybe I find his story sad, I can't tell.

"So you just backed down, turned around without realizing that upon returning from whence you came you had already covered a distance that might have just been the same length as the one you needed to cover to reach for the finish line. I don't know if encouragement to whatever extent or of whatever magnitude can make you reassemble your horses and pick up those reins, but sempai, that was disappointing."

"Most gravely disappointing, I agree, but nothing tragic."

"If you could just—"

"Ryota-hear me-and I mean listen to me. I do not have doubts that you'll make it big someday. When I said I could play better than the whole lot of your team I didn't mean that's gonna be applicable forever or even for the next two years. As what I can see now you're a fearfully accurate reminder of my glory days-excuse the lack of modesty-and I believe, and steadfastly at that, that you're gonna be everything I have wanted to be; NFL Superbowl, rockstar life—"

"—this is not about me, I asked you first—"

"—of course it is. If you weren't a football player yourself would you have asked me this?"

"You completely miss the goddamn point—"

"—let me finish—"

"—if it's about a goddamn future career—"

"—I thought I asked you to goddamn lend me your ears?" Mitsui has obviously reached the point where his ability to maintain a reverent patience has flown out the window. He continues, less sternly so, "We, Kiminobu, Kaede and I are just gonna be beside you as you rise and rise and rise amidst tides and hurricanes and yeah, we'll just be here. And it would please me to watch you from where I stand."

"I want to be there, you're damn right on that one. And I want you with me when I'm there, exactly on the same spot. We can be big, you and I." Miyagi answers, retorts more like, in a hiss.

"What's over is gone, buried and never will be recovered. And you can do me ten thousand favors by simply letting this subject go. You say you love the sport. I say I love it to death and will sell myself for it, body and soul and all. I love it too much in fact I let it go. It's stupid, probably the dumbest thing you've heard in 17 years, the ones you've forgotten included. I've loved it, love it still and will do so despite cherishing it will continue neither in heaven nor in hell. That's what you've been pining to hear, right? You've heard it, the awful, tyrannous truth; I still love football; Hisashi Mitsui loves football forever. And I am, down to the last degree, being absolutely honest and serious."

Then there's this wind that invades through the window and the sensation it brings is too limpid in its blindness to realize that the last thing we need to feel is another kiss of coldness. Mitsui's narration is enough to freeze our breaths and Ryota's ferventness can't melt them, even if it brings in reinforcements of any sort.

So he is bitter after all.

Ryota speaks, as if compelled by some deep and desperate necessity, "I-I'll speak no more of this again, if that's want you want—"

"—exactly what I want—"

"—but if I glimpse either of your eyes darting toward that goddamn field while I'm not playing on it, don't expect me _not_ to recall this conversation." Miyagi says as if governing Mitsui's sight lies in his powers.

Mitsui heaves a sigh before saying "That's what I like about you."

The day is over. We head back to the basketball stadium to check on our favorite boy, Rukawa. Neither Ryota nor Mitsui are speaking to each other which is frankly a major convenience for me because right now, hearing either of their arguing voices is just about the last thing I want to happen to me.

Meanwhile, I just can't help noticing that some redhead, I mean literally flaming red, has been staring at Mitsui for the longest time.

**TBC**

**A/N**: Corny as hell. Lame as shit too. Frankly, I don't know where this fic is going so if you could suggest anything, please do so. Ask me to stop writing for example. Jesus. But I figured I had to write this for closure. I mean there has to be something about Mitchy's quitting or something, I just goddamn hope you readers agree with me. ivy, it's nice to hear from you, capital in fact. anyway, pardon me for the errors.


	8. Hanamichi

Chapter 8: Hanamichi

If some brusque-bodied, dyed-haired, scary-looking guy has been staring at you for about eight minutes straight and counting, you'd most likely get a feel of it, right? One way or another you would, or should. Because if you wouldn't, you're probably a driftwood or something and you should perhaps go see a doctor. I'm damn sure Mitsui is no driftwood but what's taking him so damn long to fucking tell this punk to stop gaping at him because it's disconcerting and annoying as hell?

Mitsui stalks off, seemingly unaware of it or maybe deliberately trying to seem completely unaware of it. Ryota's trailing him by and for some goddamn reason he appears to be equally unconscious about this huge guy who's looking a bloody lot like he's off to give Mitsui the hell of his life. For some damn reason. Whatever it is, it really has to be gone.

We enter the stadium and this guy follows us inside and surprisingly, nothing happens. Maybe I should get some prescribed pills for paranoia. Well, never mind him; he was just staring after all…intently and meaningfully. Man, if looks could kill…I wouldn't want that. Obviously enough, I don't want Mitsui dead or anything akin to it.

It turns out he didn't follow us inside the stadium. Turns out he has more right to be there as much as every damn player there has. I wonder what the fuck Akagi Takenori was thinking on the day he allowed this punk in his team. Akagi Takenori, by the way, is the basketball team's captain. He's from my and Mitsui's class, he does really well in his academics and is very decent. And maybe perhaps a little screwed in the head. I mean what in bloody hell was he thinking? This redhead of a goon is even late for practice for cryin' out loud and with the way he's composing and reciting his excuses to his captain, I can tell he's just about as much good to anyone as a hole in the head.

Akagi gives him 100 laps for that and maybe more. There's only 30 minutes left for the session before it comes to an end and that won't be enough for 100 laps, logically. I notice we-or rather my two companions-are conjuring a sort of commotion here. Gathering far too much attention than needed is most expected from them two, I mean the type of attention which is expressed by giving off smiles and giggles, but right here, right now, part of the atmosphere is stultified by odd whispers. I'm not kidding.

As I now collect the sufficient wit to grasp how out-of-place I am with these two, it becomes gruesomely transparent to me that I can't have been anywhere else in the world. I'm kinda enjoying the stares I'm getting right now so to further ramp it all up, I give Kaede a wave which he returns with a less enthusiastic one. What a jerk I am.

The practice ends and as soon as most of the players have evaporated to condense into the locker room, Mitsui walks right over to Kaede and what a hearty feast for the girls' eyes it is. Kaede routinely stays behind later than anyone does, that's counting the maintenance personnel, to practice his moves which, I'm damn sure, are in no dire need of honing or any sort of upgrade.

"You did well today, Kaede." Mitsui comments for the sake of saying anything.

"You guys have just arrived." Kaede answers and if he was trying to sound cold or anything below happy, I must say he just about succeeded big time.

"No, we were watching you from outside." Mitsui shoots and his tone has all the reassurance of a goddamn swindler. Kaede has now all the authority to tell his senior to stop treating him like a kid.

Kaede starts shooting hoops and Mitsui watches him as though the latter is not just a kid but _his_ own kid.

Ryota is bored, thanks to Kaede's terrific silence. He grabs a ball and starts dribbling. That kills the girls and my eardrums. There's this splitting shriek that cuts through your skin; the kind that makes you wanna throw whatever's in your hand to its accursed direction. How I wish I had an elephant in my arms. He isn't bad at all, on the contrary, he can play but not the caliber that requires hysterics to describe.

Some of the basketball players have emerged from the locker room and quite a number of the sophomores are Ryota's teammates.

"Hi, Miyagi."

"Wassup Yasuda?"

"Off to home."

"See ya tomorrow then."

While this two are exchanging brief cordialities, Akagi roots himself beside Mitsui. I can't quite hear what they're talking about but what else can it be, anyway? Before their eyes is a prodigy in the making. Rukawa, as of this moment, is perhaps receiving the highest regards and grandest praises outside his knowledge. It sounds ridiculous but Mitsui is acting a damn lot like Kaede's proud father and Akagi is heightening the countless implied similarities even more by nodding incessantly at whatever Mitsui is saying.

"WWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

Ouch. I didn't manage to employ my sharp reflexes on that one. Just where the fuck are my reserved skills when you need them? Girls can get really stupid, I mean in times like this, particularly when Kaede Rukawa is slam dunking the shit out of the ring and Ryota Miyagi is dribbling as though he's fit for any sport, you _can_ really watch their brains on the actual process of vanishing, I mean the girls. Jesus.

Akagi has said goodbye to Mitsui and out from the corner it is revealed to me that I'm not the only one who feels arrested by the girls' clamoring. I forgot to ask Akagi what this kid's name is. He's currently fixing his stuff, rather stuffing his things, or whatever he can get his hands on, randomly in his bag and is apparently mumbling some incoherent disapproval about the noise the cheerers are producing.

Upon keen observation, I learn that aside from throwing fishy looks at Mitsui, there's also another activity he's really good at; throwing the same kind of look at Kaede, only a little more intently and a million times more murderous. I might say, with the way he puts his eyes to use, he can very much send ten convicts cowering in their unholy corners. And to think Mitsui and Kaede are no convicts and from my subtle remembrance, both haven't done any offense of any sort to a certain redhead.

I walk over to where Mitsui is, not disengaging my eyes from the redhead, under the dumb hope of fazing him, which may be quite effective seeing as I'm half his size.

"Kaede, what's your teammate's name?" I ask, with obvious intents of being overheard by the owner of the name in question.

"It's Hanamichi, right?"

It is Mitsui who answers.

Kaede aborts his shot and gives a faint nod.

"That's Sakuragi-_san_ for you." The redhead tells Mitsui. The nerve of some people.

"Wonderful evening." Mitsui says to him out of nothing in particular. There are just times in your life when you just gotta blurt out whatever's in your head despite its contrariness to reality for the sake breaking the ice and today _doesn't_ count among those times. I don't know what the hell Mitsui is thinking or where he's keeping his creativity resource. The nerve of some people indeed.

"Nah."

Hanamichi Sakuragi slings his duffel bag over his shoulder but doesn't wheel around to exit.

"Ignore him." Kaede says all of a sudden. I can tell he doesn't get along very well with this teammate of his. He doesn't get along very well with anyone though. But right now, in the face of this other boy's presence you can actually smell the animosity because it's hinted right all over the goddamn place.

Ryota abandons the basketball he's been playing with after a successful lay-up which resulted to the girls giggling like hell broke loose or something.

"Hisashi Mitsui, you are coming with me." Sakuragi says.

"Am I really?"

"Damn yeah—"

"—ignore him, sempai." Kaede interferes before throwing a corner jump shot.

"Shut up, kitsune."

"Go away, moron."

"Drop dead, prick."

"Eat shit, asshole."

"Why you dumb fuck—"

"Enough." Mitsui intervenes after having quite a good dose of some good retort combat. I thought he'd be somehow siding on Kaede for the insults hurled at his favorite boy might as well be aimed at him. But no, he seems to have recently acquired a certain fascination for this other freshman. "Do you have a dazzling proposal on a certain agenda that requires my dear presence?" he asks Sakuragi.

"Nowhere near it, okay? Now will you goddamn come with me or not? I hate wasting my time and I hate it even more when other people do the honor for me." Sakuragi says with a weighty amount of urgency in it.

I don't really know what's going on between these two and I haven't the slightest inkling what they're talking about and why they're even talking in the first place, like they've known each other for quite a long time. Seems like long enough to develop some sort engagement perhaps? An engagement Mitsui betrayed, or so it appears. This is not something I might call a serious contempt but there has to be some preexisting encounter where the two of them had a deal or something. I step beside Mitsui in case necessity calls for it though I can say civility is not altogether lacking in this Hanamichi Sakuragi person.

Ryota is eyeing Sakuragi with knitted brows which convey a false idea; that he is the recipient of all the demands uttered in the stadium.

"Sempai," Ryota starts, "I gotta run for a team assembly that I myself called and it would please me much if you don't go where this bastard asks you to and instead show him what happens to ignorant fools who dare assault Vau—"

"Munchkin. No one's assaulting anyone and if there's a bastard here I'm damn sure it ain't me."

"Who're ya callin' munchkin?"

"Duh."

"Bastard. You're asking for it." Ryota makes for Sakuragi, creating a scene similar to a sparrow that tries to get a whole lot of pecking at an armed hunter. I grab his wrist right on time as I become wholly aware that his physical prowess is acutely disproportionate with his size.

"Ryota, you're late for your meeting and it would be a shame if you came in looking harassed, as though you came out from the hyenas' lair." Mitsui says.

"I have to agree with that." I echo.

Miyagi frees his wrist from my grip, straightens his uniform's collar and tries to master his breathing. He then nods at me, at Mitsui and lastly, at Kaede before giving the redhead the finger. And he storms out the stadium to attend his meeting before Sakuragi can return the favor.

"Shall _I_ take this punk out for you, sempai?" Kaede offers Mitsui. I thought it was too early for him to release his wilder side. Maybe he so much wants to get a taste of showing the redhead what it's really like to contradict Kaede Rukawa. Maybe he'll go that far to show Mitsui…

"No thanks, Kaede, he's your teammate. I can manage."

"So what's it gonna be, Mitsui_-sempai?_" Sakuragi mimics in a sort of mockery Kaede and Ryota's means of a courteous address to the one whom they treat as their superior.

"I'm _coming_, alright. Don't jump up and down for joy though."

There's a possibility that all this is happening right now because Mitsui likes to raise hell from our heads. How hard is it to remember to inform me of some boding escapade with an infamous punk?

Kaede lets the ball in his hands drop like a neglected baggage.

Sakuragi nods without traces of satisfied approval in his face, only a solemn acceptance.

"Good. Let's go."

"Here's an idea: why don't you two stay where you are and enlighten the shit out of us." I say in a vicious tone of sarcasm.

"I'll tell you about it, Kiminobu; when I get back, okay?" Mitsui says. He turns to Kaede, "Don't push yourself, alright, Kaede?"

"Now you wait, Hisashi. In case you need to know, I don't fucking know what this is all about and if you think I'll-tell-ya-about-it-later will make up for whatever it is you're omitting, think again. Think fucking hard." I know it's selfish of me to pry on what appears to be a singularly private business and I just don't give rat's ass. I don't expect too much from myself and if now I find it hard to ignore the nature of these two's plight, I know too well I shouldn't push myself to stop myself from stopping them from what they're about to do because I've already mentioned it; I'm no good at this and _boy I'm so fucking stopping them_.

Mitsui rubs his forehead as if this isn't frustrating enough. Hell yeah I'll make this hard for him.

"Listen, Hanamichi here was kind enough last night to tell me he has something to show me."

"Since when did you two start collaborating?" I solicit almost menacingly.

"Last night."

"Around this time?"

"Around this time, yeah." Mitsui agrees

"Let me get this straight, if you will. You've known each other for practically 24hours and now when he asks you to come with him to god-knows-where you're all about hopping on a goddamn bicycle with him. Without as much thinking. I don't believe you."

"You can go too, Megane. Come on Mitsui." Sakuragi says.

Mitsui doesn't move.

"Give me four hours at most, Kiminobu, then I'll—"

"We won't take that long." Sakuragi curtly corrects him.

I shake my head in disbelief.

"I'm going with sempai." Kaede announces all of a fucking sudden.

This is just about as much as I can stand. I notice I'm more pissed than I ought to be, perhaps owing to the fact that I know not the slightest shit about what these two are off to do.

There's this rain of protests hailing in high velocity from Hanamichi Sakuragi's mouth which I think has a lot to do with Kaede wanting to tag along and then a meek refereeing (Mitsui's voice) trying to mediate between this storm of retaliations (Kaede has joined in) which are just about as unacceptable as all the irritations a teenage popstar can generate in her entire career or lifetime, maybe. But I'm not listening anymore. I just walk away from the three of them. Perhaps a gush of objections is surging toward the retreating me. I don't effing care. There's nothing I can conceivably gain from piling up another layer of remarks from the hell of an ear-splitting concert they're procuring. I'm done and am going home.

"I'll see you later!" Mitsui calls after me.

Yeah right. Go for all I effing care. Take your Kaede with you too. And that Sakuragi.

--

I find myself following the path I take every day after school; Mitsui's house. He lives with his mom who is currently on a business trip to Nagoya. That is, during weekdays. On weekends he stays at his dad's which is only ten blocks away. So much for being separated. I bet his parents see each other more often than they desire and I can only guess what manner of awkwardness comes out from these accidental meetings. Anyway, his mom is away and I promised him 4 days prior that I'd crash in with him for the entire week. What a lousy promise-maker I am.

As I'm about to break that promise, I feel my hands reaching for my side pockets for the spare key, then my legs climbing up the stairs to the spare room and then my body collapsing on the bed.

--

I wake up with the sound of violent footsteps trying to perhaps wrench the goddamn ceramic tiles off the goddamn floor. Sounds like someone's ransacking Mitsui's house and is doing a great deal of a gorgeous job with it by picking the most perfectly convenient time of the fucking day; 3 minutes to midnight. With the racket they're making they're most liable to inspire the neighbors to throw raw eggs at the house.

I recognize Mitsui's voice though the way he's employing it to use right now is far from the mighty artistry that he usually demonstrates.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? If you run into shit of that sort you don't fucking stand around or show it to others—"

"—I didn't fucking show it to you so you'd get to ogle at the scene—"

"You're fucking sick in the nuts—"

Apparently Mitsui is maddeningly upset about something he saw, or shouldn't have seen, and he's blaming Hanamichi Sakuragi for it.

"—what do you suggest I should've done, huh, Mitsui? Show them truckers what a 16-year-old could do to the whole lot of them?"

"You goddamn report it to the authorities if you couldn't handle it, dammit."

I make my entrance to the living room to witness a rather unsightly scene. Mitsui is trying to subdue a very fast-paced breathing, cigar between fingers. Kaede's sitting on an armchair, hand propped on his forehead, his eyes hardly visible behind strands of disheveled black hair. Sakuragi has his chin rested on his palm which is covering his face halfway down.

"What's up?" I ask. Everyone turns to look at me.

"Heavy clouds that spell heavy rain." Sakuragi answers.

"What's the matter, Hisashi?"

"Forget about me telling you that I'd tell you once I got a good look at it." Mitsui answers me, promptly looking away.

"What-dammit you three-I-don't know what to make of you lot anymore—"

"—sempai, you don't wanna know." Kaede is kind enough to hint me into saving my spit for questions I'm sure to get answers from.

"Darn we swear." Sakuragi adds in.

I think I should've polished myself earlier in preparation for long seconds of intense silence. Mitsui's transparently flaring and I don't wanna be the reason for him transforming into a goddamn explosive in a manner of seconds.

"You guys are tired, bunk in, everyone." I offer. This has got to be the lamest thing I've heard myself say.

"Have you reported this to the police?" Mitsui asks the redhead as abruptly as how they fucking woke me up.

"Hell no. why don cha do it?"

"Damage is done, which you could've prevented ages ago had you—"

"I hate the fucking authorities okay?!" Sakuragi lashes out. And I still don't have any idea about what they're so fervently upset about.

"Well now is just about the prettiest time to think of hating the authorities when—"

"Someone's off to die?!" I ask in obvious utmost panic.

"No. But that most certainly is better off happening." Mitsui says as if coming out from hearing the gravest news imaginable.

"What is this all about?" I inquire again, perhaps to no avail, again. What I can draw, from everything I've gathered so far, is that all this is a matter of a hardly consolable business. No. for Mitsui always speaks if needs be. What they have encountered is clearly _unspeakable_.

"Go report the hell out to the authorities. I'll do it, if you ask me to. Let's just put a goddamn end to it." Sakuragi says, finally accepting defeat.

Mitsui looks at him square in the face, "You know what, Hanamichi Sakuragi? Fuck you." Mitsui grabs his jacket and starts tying the loose knots of his trainers.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Hanamichi asks, as if him being left by Mitsui is gonna be a goddamn pitiable sight.

"Putting a goddamn stop to it, as you put it."

"You going to the station?"

"To hell with police."

"How are you—"

Mitsui bolts straight up with such scary suddenness it knocks the vase standing forlornly in the corner.

"I'll show you how it's done. You glue your ass on your seat and I'll teach your fucking brain how to goddamn think once in a fucking while once I get back." He tells Sakuragi who can't have appeared more astonished. He turns to Kaede, "You're staying here and you're not gonna tell anyone what you've just seen—"

"—I'm coming with you." Kaede almost pleads

"No." He then turns to me, grudgingly so, as if it's the last thing he intends to do, "I don't want you in this sort of trouble because—you already know the answer to that."

He grabs his lighter from the kitchen counter, traipsing past us, avoidant and hesitating. Kaede stands up perhaps to get another shot at defiance only to be ignored.

Sakuragi speaks, after what must have been the longest time he's stayed speechless in his life,

"I can't do it alone."

"No one's asking you to." Mitsui answers. It's perhaps the cruelest 5-word statement he's ever been compelled to uttering.

"I can't salvage such depth of a goddamn mess alone. I showed you because I believe someone can fucking do it…with me, hopefully."

And Sakuragi smiles derisively at the uselessness of his efforts to redeem himself, his fucked-up self as he claims. Mitsui nods at him, almost sympathetically. And before Kaede and I knew it, both have braved the stabbing dangers of the rain outside.

--

By the next morning Hanamichi and Mitsui will have performed the most ruthless deed they'll ever have done. Justice they will call it. It will be all over the news that a local pub frequented by the most notorious of bikers and truckers, and which is owned by a grotesque, perverted, despicable old fucktard, has burned to the ground, leaving only a clear annihilation.

No ashes, no dusts.

**TBC**


	9. Hanamichi and Kaede

Chapter 9: Hanamichi and Kaede

Now I know why Mitsui tried so hard to prevent me from knowing what they went to battle against. By the next morning, none of us four went to school. It's already 11 am and no one's picking up the idea that we should go at least half-day. Ryota is perhaps looking around all over Kanagawa for the three of us and I should say he'd be over the ceiling upon discovering that the redhead punk, to whom he most promptly assigned the term bastard, is right at this moment sleeping on Mitsui's couch, right across the armchair where Kaede's head is lolling like a levitated balloon running low on helium.

I had a fairly decent talk with Mitsui shortly after his and Sakuragi's arrival. I wasn't awake all the time they were gone; Kaede was just about as much bore as all the boredom in the world. The only things I managed to extract from him where a bunch of nods and grunts. I was about all set up to hurl the goddamn television at him just for scene variety purposes when he practically dropped unconscious. He fell asleep.

Going back to my fairly decent talk with Mitsui the night prior, I awoke at the racket they produced upon entering via backdoor. I rubbed my eye for a clear view of them and it wasn't the sight nor the sound of them that initially told me they'd come back safely; it was their smell. You'd think they slid down the goddamn chimney and upon closer inspection of their appearance, you'd be cocksure they really did slide down from some goddamn chimney.

"Went out for a barbecue at this time of the night?" I found myself asking the most unlikely question one can ask at three in the morning.

There was a conspiratorial satisfaction about them and you could tell they'd done something that amounts to more excitement than sliding down someone's chimney can provide.

"I'll wash my face, where's the washroom?" Sakuragi asked Mitsui.

"I'll show you." Mitsui answered him and was about to follow the rookie down the hall when it struck me that both were pretending to be a couple of jerks who liked to dodge practical questions.

"Morons." I managed to say.

Sakuragi gave Mitsui a sideway glance before disappearing into the washroom. Mitsui turned to me with a certain look that was oscillating between satisfaction and reluctance which just about rendered him difficult to describe with anything like accuracy.

"We've done something hideous. I don't want you or Kaede or Ryota involved in it—"

"—so much for being more than just a team, huh?"

"But I'll let you know." He said firmly. "Only that it's not my story to tell; it's Hanamichi's. If you'd be kind enough to allow us to recover some strength and let this pass on till tomorrow, we'd be much obliged. For now, we need to doze."

That was a fairly decent talk.

--

By twelve in the afternoon everyone has woken up. Apparently, we're all late for the latter half of the day's classes and no one's still budging to get a move on hitting the road for school. I sit myself across Hanamichi Sakuragi on the breakfast table and Mitsui starts chucking us some microwaveable items which turn out to be our breakfast.

"Where had you two gone off last night?" I ask Sakuragi in what probably is naïve directness.

He's currently too tipsy from inadequate sleep (if you suppose 8 hours of it is inadequate) to process anything more lengthy than a three-word query. He takes a sip from his orange juice and tries with sincere effort to get my question answered. He straightens up his arched back and duly gives Mitsui a sly nod. He begins narrating a tale that's too hideous for any of my fascination to twisted subjects to entertain. Kaede turns the television off and toddles toward the kitchen to join us, which he perhaps will later on regret for a sad and gruesome tale Sakuragi's accounts are gonna be.

"It started off when my bud, Noma, got me into biking to try to explore the outskirts of the town which to me, brings in as much fun and excitement as solving ten thousand crossword puzzles in a row. I came with him anyway for extra endurance and body-building purposes. Just when our activity was to drive me half crazy due to boredom, we spotted this gloomy, decrepit building standing forlorn out in the open, out of nowhere, kilometers from the town proper. One look at it and you'd find yourself wanting to demolish it to do whoever owned it a goddamn favor. But then we were wrong. For on its garage about a dozen motorbikes and trucks just as many were parked. On top of that, a bouncy tune was coming out of the stupid building. It was clearly a party. We ignored it though. Then on the next day we found the property again in the exact same state. We figured it was a commercial building of some sort, you know, pubs and the like, but what kind of customers could it possibly attract? I'll tell you: Perverts. A whole lot of them. I surveyed the area from a distance but Noma, being the nosy git that he is, decided to poke in to get a proper look, in short, we got in. We were greeted by dismayed glares, rude and annoying, and you could tell at first glance that the building were full of bastards as much as the Nazis were but we were trying to look tough and all so we ordered beer, a mug each for us two. You'd only have to sit there for a few minutes to realize you were actually capable of hating half the people in the world. They were all morons who know nothing better to do than get themselves drunk as a bastard. Having learned what was with the building, we left immediately. It was a dirty affair; that much was plain enough for any dumby turd to notice and people like that should be left alone for their own devices so they could stone themselves drunk till dead. So we agreed to have nothing to do with them, no ratting on the police or anything because they were just a bunch of bastards drinking themselves to death; nothing seriously against the goddamn law or anything. But one time we went off biking again and I forgot to bring my jug with me. I was thirsty as hell I could seriously drink a ton of blood dry. So I came up with the unthinkable. Instead of looking for a goddamn desert cactus which, you know doesn't exist in Kanagawa, I opted to fucking visit that building one more time and try to find some water outlet or something. I mean they got to have one in the garage or dirty kitchen, right? So we went there, purposing to get drinking water without barging in. it was kind of a surprise that no vehicle was parked outside it when we got there. But then I remembered it was a weekday and I didn't go to school that day. We concluded that them bastards were off to their works or whatever was occupying their days. Who knew? Not us. So we took advantage of our lucks and went to the backdoor. To my surprise and utter disturbance, there was this girl, not more than our age, idling vacantly in the rotten kitchen. It made me depressed as hell just by looking at her. And then all of a sudden she noticed someone had gotten in and she was kinda shaken off by our presence, I could tell. But then she smiled when she saw us. That has got to be saddest thing that happened to me. Yet. I'll tell ya how she looked like. She was pale and all, looked as though she hadn't had a taste of meat in ten years, she was small and…she was retarded or at least mentally ill. She wasn't well in the head and that initial speculation was further solidified when she spoke. She wasn't capable of language! She was grunting and pointing, man. I can't go on anymore. But you probably have by now figured out why they were keeping her imprisoned there. I know because I saw it with my own eyes on the very same night. I came back right around twilight closed in. And them bastards would force her into this room. I'll stop right here."

And then I understand. I understand not from the mental pictures Sakuragi has relayed but from their grim faces. It's not Mitsui's story to tell nor was it Sakuragi's; it should not be told at all. What they did is absolution. They downed a one-storey building of some unspeakable purpose only to be absolved of the haunting thoughts it can potentially supply. And it's over. It's all over because Hanamichi Sakuragi has succeeded in making Hisashi Mitsui to come with him to put a stop to it. Right now, I probably am staring straight into the bravest kid I've ever known.

Kaede springs up from his chair, recognizing the end signal of the convention. He gathers up his jacket from the sofa and to everyone's mild surprise, picks up Sakuragi's windbreaker too before hurling it to its owner.

"What the hell's your goddamn problem?" Sakuragi asks, half astonished, half enraged.

"We'll be late for practice, moron. We're gonna hatch it up against Ryonan in three hours."

This instantly subdues the freshman's impending fury.

"Shit. Gori's gonna be in for double murder. I'll see ya around, Mitchy, Megane." Sakuragi says hastily in mild panic as he puts on his jacket. "I'll race you there, Kitsune."

--

There's pretty much nothing to do on Friday afternoon if you're a mediocre, good-for-nothing teen but to hang around where something cool is going down and wait around for this something cool to come your way. We carry our feet to the Ryonan High stadium to witness a grand act. Well, not exactly an act. Shohoku High basketball team is to have its first dry-run of the year against another High School team. Simply put; Akira Sendoh and Rukawa Kaede are gonna face the standard against which their talents are to be measured.

What has over and over again been established will now be once again reestablished. This is a day programmed to have our faces bolstered by the fact that Gungrave is from a wholly different dimension… that Vault is just your regular gang of boys and Akira Sendoh's advantage over Kaede and Hanamichi will lend emphasis to that.

"Sempai!"

Ryota is scuttling towards us, as if pursued by some assailant.

"Yosh, Ryota. How did your team meeting go last night?" Mitsui asks.

"Forget that. That ain't the pressing matter. What the hell happened yesterday when I'd gone? Did you like, give that cocky punk his due?"

"It's kind of a long story. All ended well. So well in fact we couldn't attend class today—"

"—tell me about it. I looked high and low for you guys all morning. Jesus. I was all set up to check on the local detainment facility."

"Well now we're gonna watch Hanamichi and Rukawa pull their stuff against Ryonan—"

"Yeah but did you come with him? He was asking you to, right? Where to?"

"Too many questions. I did go with him and I helped him sort something out and now—now there's no way someone like me is entitled to call him a bastard. Let's leave it at that. He's a fine kid. You'll know it when you meet him."

"I've met him yesterday, remember? I…" Ryota falters. He has long ago resigned with the fact that when Mitsui says something you show reverence to it. When he says 'end of conversation' he means no further questions shall be entertained. Ryota guesses it right; he has no choice but to relinquish his attempts to enrich the goddamn circling conversation. He speaks again rather dejectedly, "At least tell me if you're gonna let him in, like be one of us."

"Certainly."

--

Shinichi Maki really knows how to stir a crowd in ways that matter. He rips along the crowd as a neat line of the most impressionable high schoolers slug behind him. They've come to watch Sendoh, of course.

"Good day, Hisashi."

"If it isn't Shinichi."

"I'd like you to meet my brothers; this is Kenji, Toru, this one's Hiroaki and I believe you've heard of Soichiro."

Mitsui nods. There's this peculiar formality between them that seems to give the episode a meaning. Mitsui casts each of them a cursory glance one after the other. Honestly, he's just the type of person who'd be unable to recognize tension if so much of it was blasted in his face.

"Pleased to meet you. I suppose I'll have my lot introduced too. This one's Kiminobu and I believe you know Ryota."

"Of course."

Around this time, the attraction has grown considerably thick. Mitsui nods a final one and pulls away impassively.

"This is something like Rukawa-kun's debut, isn't it?" Maki says.

The scraping sound of Mitsui's retreating feet die away, "Yes. And if you could go down there, you could tell your brother he should watch out for the redhead as well."

At this, Ryota steers his face somewhere else as if looking away could help the smirk that's crossing his face.

The guy whose name is Hiroaki narrows his eyes and in a minute, words issue from his mouth like they'd never quit, "If you think two freshmen can fasten shackles in Akira's feet I suggest you check on your records first before you make silly assumptions." He says it like a taunt or a challenge.

Hostility is a ground Mitsui doesn't stray on if it equates to losing his cool. Same goes for Maki, it seems.

Mitsui smiles at the Hiroaki kid, "Come on now. That's neither here nor there. If sensibility ever manages to creep its way to your head, you'd know I'm not saying anything similar to Sendoh being nailed down by two freshmen. Far from it, in fact."

Jin Soichiro scratches the back of his head. Fujima and Hanagata are exchanging dark sidelong glances. Ryota can't seem to endure the thrill anymore. He protracts his face to the ground and I can actually hear his stifled sniggers from under there as he shakes his head. As for me, the only thing I have at my disposal is silence.

"There's no need to resort to loose words. I mean it's no different from a crime prematurely committed." Maki says.

"You can tell your friend that." Mitsui answers.

I find their exchanges hard to digest although they speak in riddles that I can decipher I still can't grasp what's with the reverence. One thing is clear though; someone is getting too cocky and it's way past too long for him to realize it. Just when I'm starting to think there's gonna be no end to this fanciful exchanges,

"We'll be going ahead now, Mitsui."

Mitsui nods without a word. Man, even his silence can be mocking.

We trek our way to the sideline bleachers and there we take our posts and watch in silence as Sendoh time and again accents the reality that Rukawa Kaede and Hanamichi Sakuragi have come a lifetime earlier to his challenge. It's like watching a rehearsed act you wouldn't dare to go over again if replay were free. It's this fifty insurmountable minutes of travail where they're sentenced to fail. It's a taste of some dictatorial subjection which cannot be reversed. Clearly, it's defeat.

"Ryota, from an athlete's eyes, what do you see?" Mitsui asks.

Miyagi rouses from his abstracted state, "It's hard to tell; there's still the last quarter."

"Is that all?"

I stare at Miyagi as a sigh lifts from his mouth as if something final has taken place, "I see two drifters overwhelmed by a tide they can't overcome." He says, still and resigned.

"Yes. I see that too." Mitsui agrees.

I can feel the meaningless attempts to speak die down in my throat. I feel the coldness dissipating from these two, merciless and lingering; a coldness I'd never possess even if it hunts me down. And then dismay hardens inside me that I want nothing more than to troop out and stop watching.

"I see…" Miyagi starts slowly, as if trying to hold on to some dimming memory, "I see two kids waking up from some depth many people can't encompass. It's more than just meeting your dreaded nemesis first time around. This game cannot end without transforming these two boys forever. And now that they're no longer hostages to their ignorance, they've found a goal. And that is to bury Akira Sendoh's name beneath theirs."

I'm starting to feel like these two are purposely puzzling me with their athlete talk and I'm beginning to realize how increasingly dumb I'm becoming. Then Mitsui turns to me, outlaying his offer of clarity,

"What we're saying is Kaede and Hanamichi NEED Sendoh. It's true that this game is beyond help of any form and the truth of which they're experiencing firsthand. But this helplessness is NOT something time can't annul. In no time, these two kids will be the Sendoh-killers, they will be or they'll die trying. So don't feel responsible to pity them; they're old enough to see what's required of them."

Upon seeing how natural this all is to these two footballers, I toil with hardship to adapt their bizarre sentiments. And that's what I'm doing in order to let time pass because we've reached a degree where nothing more can be profitably said…as Kaede and Hanamichi's struggles grow steadily worse.

The game ends. As I've always been the one elected to say things that would be uncharacteristic for Mitsui, I speak,

"Should we wait for them?"

"Nah. They're probably too busy thinking of ways to have Sendoh's face shoved in the mud to remember their top 3 fans."

So we plow ahead in silence, each knowing what the two others have in mind. Akira Sendoh's brilliance in the game is only one part of the thick line that lies between us and them.

**TBC**


	10. Punk

Chapter IX: Punk

I never was someone who'd broadcast some notable attributes I possess because for one thing, there's none and for another, I'm just not like that. I feel now so removed from myself and the feeling is so thick it can last for over forever. These people I've plunked myself with, Mitsui, Ryota, Kaede and Hanamichi have like strapped me fastened tight into this fast-forward journey of learning. I'm always half certain about what I want, and, least of all, myself but now—

"Maki still hasn't stopped pestering me." Mitsui says. It doesn't register to us fast enough so he speaks again, "He's always wanted me to be his left-wing and what with his bluntness he can just go to hell. I just can't sit on his hypocrisy anymore." He has his eyes fixed somewhere ahead of us as though his senses haven't descended on him yet.

"What are you saying?" I ask.

"Gungrave. He wants me in it. Last time we talked he mentioned he wanted all of you to be in it too. By the time we schedule another talk he'd want the entire Shohoku School to be his minions."

It's been a week since the Ryonan match. Kaede and Hanamichi have been making themselves as scarce as a goddamn miracle lately, perhaps dodging being interrogated about their failure to contain Sendoh. On its lightest note, it's rather immature and that's as nice as I can get. They have this toddler logic like they'd mope Satan out of hell if you so much as mumbled the word 'loser'. So now it's me, Miyagi and Mitsui again carrying our feet home.

Mitsui seems lost in his musings. Miyagi and I swap glances. Our brains are just about following a road which doesn't lead to comprehension, at least not a complete one.

"How long has he been asking you?" Miyagi asks.

"Donkey years now. Ever since Gungrave was born. That's like three years ago and man, if persistence were personified, it'd be named Shinichi. He just doesn't fucking get it. I've dropped it on him for about ten million times that it's never gonna happen. My irritation was just about the closest he got to my consent." Mitsui says it all as though he's trying to remember something, like he doesn't know where to put his thoughts next.

"Why haven't you told us until now?" Miyagi asks.

Mitsui doesn't answer right away and now there's enough silence between us three to allow an argument. In time, he answers,

"Would it make a difference? Would you join them if he asked you to?"

I look at him, completely understanding what he has in mind. But maybe that understanding is about to disappear.

"I—I can't imagine myself being anywhere else." Miyagi says, sounding almost philosophical in his brief reply. He continues, "Are you bothered, sempai?"

Mitsui stares at him in estimation as the other wonders what sort of look it was.

"Why?"

"Well, if this conversation is gonna assume some drama series quality I'm bailing myself out now." Ryota says, half jesting. Mitsui smiles back at him.

"Come on, man."

"They're all the same. The popular jocks that they are; it's just part of their nature to NOT trouble being essential and be skin-deep only because their skins are all they've got. And if that's how a man's capabilities are measured, I can just quit being a man right here, right now." Miyagi finishes before surveying the horizon. I'm gonna put my bet on him not fully knowing what he has just said.

"Don't you think it's a little weird, if not ironic, coming from you? You're a frickin' sports jock." I say and honest to god, I'm not teasing or mocking.

Mitsui laughs at this, and so does Miyagi.

"That rule doesn't apply to me. That's enough of a statement."

"If you've been looking closely, you're infinitely more than that." Mitsui tells him.

--

"I really don't get it." Sakuragi says. "I mean it makes as much sense as nothing else."

"Quit it already, do' aho." Rukawa snaps.

Mitsui is playing some survival-horror game on his PS2 while Miyagi is following the game like a friggin' headline. The world can just dissolve and they'd still be holding on to the goddamn controller and the console. Sakuragi can just shoot the same thing all day long and there'd be no difference if he was talking to a wall.

I speak up, "Everything is just in proper order. Kaede's here and so are you and since you two go way back to the basketball team, maybe you can just start getting along seeing as you're gonna be stuck with each other for a very long time."

"No." Both say firmly.

"Well at least you agree on one thing." I say sarcastically.

Looking back, it was pretty strange that Kaede had been swayed so easily by Mitsui while Maki was just about ready to cast himself on his feet. And then there's also the fact that he listens to everything Mitsui says that I suspect he wouldn't complain if he were asked to interpret and record his senior's sleep-talks.

"Let me ask you one question," Sakuragi starts at his fellow freshman, "I mean this is purely out of curiosity and mind you, there's a lotta difference between curiosity and interest so don't go all bigheaded on me. Here goes; why did ya join in?"

Kaede puts on a pose of indifference. He swings his gaze at Mitsui who's just at the moment NOT gonna return the gaze, not even for the entire world; he's still locked on the stupid game and it may take forever for him to get it over.

Kaede answers, "Why are you in the basketball team?"

This really isn't gonna go anywhere unless these two cut it with their wisecracking nonsense.

"Talent duh."

Rukawa rolls his eyes and stuffs his earphones in their designated locations.

"Do'aho."

It gets me thinking; it's bound to, one way or the other. I size about all matters of benefits his hanging around with us could bring; there's a lot for us, maybe, and there's nothing much for him; that is if we're talking about personal growth. He can just say goodbye to us anytime and that won't alter his course anyway. He'll be a superb professional athlete someday, an achievement that doesn't require our presences.

"Baka, I'm asking you seriously here."

Rukawa sighs, "Nothing."

"Huh? What sort of a crazy answer is that?"

"I joined for nothing."

I'm this person who frequently fusses over small matters and that isn't exactly an ideal answer for me. I looked at Mitsui and Miyagi and they're just nowhere near ready to listen. I'd like to chip in some personal words but Hanamichi pipes up,

"No strings attached?"

Rukawa's eyes dart at Mitsui again, perhaps expecting him to talk. What the hell can he say when he doesn't even realize people are talking in the first place?

"I'm in this for nothing just as there's nothing that can make me leave this. If you still don't get it, perhaps you should purchase a brain somewhere and come back when you've finally come to terms with it." He rises from the couch and turns to me, "Sempai, I'll bounce now; I have to pick something up for my mom." He pummels his way to the door.

"Oi Kaede, where are you going?" Mitsui asks, cocking his head away from the screen.

"I have to run an errand."

"Oh. See ya later."

"Bye, sempai."

Sakuragi is staring at me. He has risen halfway from his seat. It appears that Rukawa's sudden departure is something that has just passed him by; not something that actually occurred. And maybe the same goes for me too.

"Did he just leave?"

"Yeah."

"He's a goddamn plagiarist."

I throw him a questioning look.

"How so, may I ask?"

"He took the words outta my mouth. I'm supposed to have come up with that."

He continues to stare at the doorway looking somewhat hypnotized, perhaps ruminating on the fact that he and Kaede ought to be in a no-rivalry relationship. As for me, I seriously think Mitsui has stumbled upon a very strange kid.

--

Sometimes I just can't help detesting myself for what I construe to be a total lack of will. There's always this irremovable presence of mixed regrets in me of could've-been's and might've-been's that I can't stop myself from wondering what I'll end up to be in the next ten years.

So now I lumber on the sidewalk on my way home to plunge into yet again another evening of splendid boredom. Nothing really gets more ordinary than this except that when I emerge onto the highway, I start hearing these raised voices from the river's embankment. So I go over to where the commotion is and I am now recoiling at the sight.

There are these three guys with all sorts of punkish faces rounded upon some cocky-looking dude and you can't just mistake the scene for anything else. Street brawl. Shit like this happen a lot under the bridge, in dead alleys and most of all, along the undying riverbank. It's the undying venue to settle accounts with punks you'd wanna beat the crap out of; to simplify. I myself have been involved in such undignified activities but I've long ago stopped fraternizing with trash. So maybe I'll just stand by and watch. Nothing beats reminiscing the good ole days.

And then this guy in the middle, the prey, is grinning from ear to ear. I look around for anything in sight that can potentially be a laughing matter; no luck. I recognize the kid. I always come across him when I loiter around the campus doing the same thing. He's a freshman from Shohoku High. Maybe I should jump in. But I guess if I do that there'll be more than just the three dudes to worry about; there'll be the possibility that I'll have to explain why I'm meddling and all.

But then there's just no need for that because now he's standing alone and all them three bastards are scuffling about on their knees. There's a massive difference between what I'm seeing now and the ones I've watched in the movies though technically, absurd as it sounds, they're the same thing; teenage rumble and the strongest shall remain standing yada yada yada…

He now cracks the sort of smile you see from cartoon character villains when things go their way. It surprises me how minor the task has been for him and guessing from the way he recovers his bag from the corner, he's had quite a lot of share of street brawl, perhaps more than the necessary amount.

I've tarried longer than I should've allowed myself to. He catches a sight of me. He gives me an empty shrug before swiveling around to exit. I'm just glad he didn't ask anything because I couldn't have said anything in response. Hell, I was just watching.

--

By the next day at lunch break, I sit myself somewhere in the cafeteria while I wait for Mitsui to finish buying his meal, and perhaps I'm also waiting for something else that'll never happen.

Sakuragi dumps his food tray beside mine.

"I've a question to ask you." I tell him.

"What?"

I grab the top of his head and steers it to the far corner of the hall, "See that guy with black hair dining with a fat boy, a blonde boy and a moustache boy? Isn't he a freshman like you?"

Sakuragi disengages my hand from his head, "They're my friends. Did they do something to ya?"

"No. What's his name?"

"The one who's not a fatty, a blondie and a moustache boy?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"He's Youhei Mito."

--

**TBC**


	11. Last Two

Chapter 11: Last Two

--

We marshal ourselves into the stadium to see how Hanamichi and Kaede are holding on. Ryota's still in his football training so it's me and Mitsui again in this baby-sitting duty.

"Mitsui, tell those two that if they ever get sick of trying to get along with each other, let us know because I'm still on the look-out if something like that can really happen."

He chuckles at this. "You're just making it difficult for yourself if you're just gonna sit on it; let things flow."

In truth, it's not really that big a deal to me; not like I'd love to sing it out to them to be friendly and all. In its most ordinary sense, I just think it'd be nicer if they were on better terms.

We watch our two freshmen sweat themselves shitless as each works himself up to his limits. At length, the players dole out the gym until Kaede and Hanamichi are the only ones left communing with the balls.

"I suppose Kaede is heading for a double overtime." I tell Mitsui as Hanamichi retires to the locker room.

"As always."

"Should you wait for him? I can go with Hanamichi."

"Yeah I'll stay behind. Ryota will probably drop by after his football dig."

I nod and I'm once again alone in the knowledge that Mitsui's spoiling his beloved protégé on his way to fucking brat land. He's quite lucky I know when to set my rants aside.

After brief farewells, I find my indistinct treads matching Hanamichi's over the pavement.

"You mentioned Youhei Mito's your friend."

He consumes a criminal amount of time to reply. I'm thinking he's about to launch an array of teasing for my peculiar interests. Instead,

"You can say that. But he's been pretty distant lately though I'm not especially one to talk being an athlete and keeping it with you guys and all. Have you met him?"

"I saw him over a week ago in Karakura district's embankment. He was in a fight, after which he took off unscathed. Nothing much."

"He's always in a goddamn fight. It's a very easy game for him, being the crack-head bastard that he is."

"That's his idea of fun, I would guess."

Hanamichi heaves a sigh and his over exertion leads me to think I may have said something uncalled for.

"I don't wanna think of him that way. But I guess I—me and the Guntai boys—have made more excuses for him more than he deserves."

"And you're clinging to him because you think it's right, because he's your friend?" I solicit.

Hanamichi sinks on to this foliage case nearby, stressing that the next thing he's gonna say takes a singular attention. He fastens his gaze on the concrete pavement. I sit beside him. He opens his mouth reluctantly, as if compelled to utter something he so shudders to think of,

"Youhei's changed. He's still perfectly in charge of his wits but I dunno about his emotions. Megane, are you asking me all these because you wanna recruit him to Vault?"

I discharge my gaze from his. It strikes me that I really don't know the answer to that and I am being completely honest. And here is my doubt again, exacting its toll on me, me, who hasn't the slightest hint of what he truly wants in life.

"I don't know. Hell, I don't even know him, not in the shabbiest degree, even. But I guess I do _want_ to know him." Maybe I should congratulate myself for managing to determine what I want for the moment.

He looks at me with such a steadfastness I'm hardly comfortable with. He then, reinstates himself to calmness, "I'll tell you. I'll tell you all you need to know for you to grasp the scale of which you need to overlook before you credit him with merits he barely possesses. So, he's this certified punk, a self-proclaimed one, and he can't be too sure of anything else in the world more than that. To some extents, he's probably just like the whole bunch of us; we fix troubles if they get on our tits even if it means incinerating an entire bastard breeding ground or ambushing some defenseless fucktard and leaving him for the ambulance to arrange. To a certain extent only. Beyond that, trouble really does look for him. And when he gets acquainted with something that has a loose end, he's liable to finish the dirty job at whatever expense. As it's cracked up to be, we, the Guntai boys, don't involve ourselves much to his escapades which, I think, he finds convenient. He's come to that because, we suspect, it has to do with his older brother." He pauses, unceremoniously so. The wind may have abducted the contents of his throat.

"Tell me." I entreat because my curiosity has had me with no options left but to be a prying son of a gun.

He tilts his head backwards, lets his eyes wander off the streak of dark violet above us and speaks, "Well, his brother is in some rehab, got addicted to some substance and is now of hardly any resemblance to the genius he used to be. If you carry it to its broadest possible context, you'd make out that his brother had been an imbecile for succumbing to such. But Youhei never really saw it that way, never will, perhaps. That's the precursor to his ride downhill. After determining that his bro was an innocent victim of these drug-dealing shitheads, he went about conducting his solo flights, orchestrating fraudulent deals with these fugitives and giving them a taste of the hell they deserved using his goddamn fists. I mean, that can be understandable if you open your mind wide enough, but you see, our minds can only be too fucking wide. So yeah, some self-respecting someone may see he has a fucking point but at length, we kinda arrived with the idea that he was no longer doing it for revenge. It's like hatred has hardened inside him as he continued to contrive with evil and that idea elevated to a fact when…" he falters down. Something seems to have pierced his concentration; either that or his narration has reached a part which his articulation cannot accommodate.

"What the hell happened?" I pursue. I do understand he's said enough to satiate any veteran snoop's curiosity but if his stall means there's something more, there's just no way I'll stop wanting to hear the rest of the revelation; not even if it comes in so many words.

"He got himself a girlfriend." He starts. I wonder what assistance this info can serve the story. He continues, "She's this rich girl, kinda pretty, has a decent upbringing; in a word, she's the major catch. You'd wonder what a chick like that would gain from a punk who has a hazy background, an unstable present and predictably no future. Well, Youhei is kinda good-looking and apart from that, he really knows how to talk, like he even got as far as negotiating with the big boys and screwing them shitless afterwards, know where I'm getting at? So he got around to get on with her and we were really happy for him in the hope that he'd be appeased and would stop it with his detestable propensities of putting himself in constant danger. Why the hell am I even telling you these? Okay—and then one day, he got really pissed because me and the guys, we were like teasing him outta his wits for his romantic side, like we were raising bloody racket all over Kanagawa about him having a girl and all and then—and then, fed up as he was, he told us the reason why he chose the girl for her fucking girlfriend…he's after her father. Like, he's using her to get to her old man. Her pops is some rich business tycoon who's living a double life. I don't know a shit how Youhei got to know that much; like perhaps he really underwent some thorough investigation; the effort, man, I dunno. He told us the sonuvabitch was running some secret operations of an illegal substance circulation. So we realized he was fucking _obsessed _with his judgment-passing delusions. What we realized, he confirmed. Only that this isn't a delusion for him; he's absolutely serious about this goddamn self-appointed mission to fuck up the greatest fuckers of this place. He's fucking seventeen years old, man! We've tried talking him into forgetting the whole plot because other than screwing an entire family, he's just about to chuck the best chick he'll ever be likely to fucking snatch. And we might as well talk back to the fucking sun. You know what he told us? He said, 'I don't effing care. I'll drag this bastard to hell even if _I_ have to fucking go down with him.'"

My composure smothers under the weight of the information. Should I be awed, ashamed of myself or terrified? If all this is true, then maybe I'm too small for the world, too young for my age and too vulnerable for the lives around me. I swallow hard as I feel Hanamichi move briskly beside me. He stands up hastily as if someone's gonna stop him if he does. I copy his movements because my wits are currently incapable of originality. Now we're walking side by side again. I recall what Vault has traveled to all this time. There's nothing much that remains the same; Mitsui and I have grown out of pointless street brawls, we've done a few justice-seeking, Rukawa has learned how to practice attachment; to Mitsui particularly, Hanamichi has woken up to the fact that there's more to life than chicks and being a punk, Ryota has become so delineated from your conventional jock. Perhaps I've changed after all. Well, all these, they're not much to get yapping about…

"Hanamichi, your friend needs help."

"Yeah. It's not like we haven't been trying to salvage him from the fucking mess that he is."

"No. Not that. He can't take on that bastard single-handedly."

Hanamichi pulls to a halt and stares at me as though some horror that's too much for him is bearing down on us to sweep us away.

Perhaps I've spent too much time with Mitsui and his goddamn mouth.

--

Hesitation is my department and that's something I've learned to accept with time's help. For now, I'm being rewarded with a piece of mind; yeah, I think I'll set my engines running now. It's about time.

So here is Mitsui, Ryota and Rukawa. They've just arrived from somewhere, a place perhaps where they could set their mischief loose. Rukawa's lower lip is bleeding mildly, Miyagi's nursing his scratched fists and Mitsui hasn't got a hair out of line on his body.

"What's up?" I ask. Sakuragi abandons the magazine he's reading upon the three's glorious entrance.

"You know Ryu?" Mitsui starts and from what I have hitherto conjectured, he's rapt up with joy from some crack-headed business. "The one who stole Tetsuo's Harley Davidson? We've just dropped him a personal reminder that if doesn't stop fucking around the entire neighborhood, the next place he'll find himself into is the fucking morgue."

Miyagi roars with laughter. Sakuragi, who's been sitting undisturbed with me all the while, now starts to howl like a hyena.

"You okay, Kaede?" I ask.

"He's okay. He has some slick moves; long limbs equal to far-reaching fists." Mitsui tells me of his protégé.

What we're slowly plunging into now is perhaps ethnical purging. Or maybe it's just me, same old me who's prone to wishful thinking. Chances are, we're just doing this for fun, if not to let time pass. But if things had been different, I'd probably be miserable beyond reasonable. So I laugh along to try to make the truth softer, the truth being we can't laugh all the time, at least not forever…

Here on the same night, I root myself beside Mitsui. I'm really glad he's put down his accursed videogame for a change. I mean he may be having something coming down on him like some optical condition for sitting too long on the goddamn TV screen. I stay quiet for as long as I can pretend, downplaying with effort my desire to tell him something. I speak before silence dominates us,

"Found an interesting kid." That's as much as I can give by way of describing the enigma that is Youhei Mito.

Mitsui's casual reception of the news becomes apparent at once.

"Lemme guess, a freshman?"

"You guessed right." I suppose Hanamichi has done the honor of saving me some spit.

"From Kainan High who goes by the name Kiyota Nobunaga." He says in a mockery of earnest confidence.

He's wrong anyway. But more importantly, what on god's green earth is he talking about?

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He stares at me in a mild comprehension. Well yeah if you're Hisashi Mitsui, accepting your mistakes can be pretty hard since you believe such is not possible.

"I'm wrong? You're not talking about the Kainan kid?"

"I don't know any friggin' Kainan kid except those dudes in Gungrave."

"Oh."

"You trying to diversify our line-up?"

"No. At least not two minutes ago since now that you've mentioned it, the idea has developed some attraction."

Here he goes again, demonstrating his mindless daring tendencies.

"Who's this Kainan kid?"

"He's this dude whom Ryota knows, well, only by name, from the football field; a freshman line-backer of the Kainan Football varsity team."

"And? What does Ryota see in him?"

"It's the other way around; What does he see in Ryota?"

"A little help here, please." I say as my patience ebbs away by high degrees.

"He says he wants to be a part of Vault for a certain quarterback he looks up to whose name is Ryota Miyagi."

Now that's some news. Fame really does make things happen.

**TBC**

**Note**: I don't really know where this shit is going. Suggestions would be nice.


End file.
